


Your Ghost

by Maiden_of_Asgard



Category: Loki - Fandom, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Byronic Heroes & Heroines, Creepy Loki (Marvel), Drama & Romance, F/M, Feisty Heroines, Ghosts, Gothic, Historical Fantasy, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Maybe Eventual Ghost Smut, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Loki (Marvel), Trickster Loki (Marvel), let's see where this goes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:58:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_Asgard/pseuds/Maiden_of_Asgard
Summary: The maids claimed that the castle had been built atop the remains of an old heathen temple, a site of wicked magic and blood-sacrifice. They claimed it was haunted.For her part, Margaret was skeptical.That doesn't bother Loki in the slightest; he has all the time in the world to make a believer of her.An eternity, even.





	1. Maybe You'll Find Me There

The maids claimed that the castle had been built atop the remains of an old heathen temple, a site of wicked magic and blood-sacrifice. They claimed it was haunted.

For her part, Margaret was skeptical.

While she understood _why_ one might think such a thing, gazing upon the weathered pennants and crumbling buttresses, or looking out over the ever-foggy, gloomy lake, she liked to consider herself a rational sort of girl. The claim of spirits clinging desperately to this mortal plane sounded highly suspect - for one, why would they bother staying _here?_ If she were going to find a spot to haunt for the rest of eternity, she would be inclined to choose somewhere much nicer.

The castle was her newest home, having been foisted off on one relation after another time and time again in the years since her mother had passed and her father had taken abroad in his grief. When she was younger, she had resented him for it, but as time passed, her heart grew more forgiving. They had been truly in love, her parents, and the fever that had taken her mother had killed her father just as surely.

He would visit occasionally, when he did manage to return from his travels, always a little older and a little sadder. These visits became less and less frequent as Margaret grew older, and it took her some time to understand that it was because she looked too similar to his beloved Mathilda, a ghost sent to haunt him. She forgave him for that, too, though it was not as easy.

Now she was to live with Uncle Magnus, a lord of distant relation that was actually more likely to be a cousin of some sort. Margaret could not remember what the connection was supposed to be, and he had demanded to be called Uncle Magnus, so she had agreed easily enough.

Uncle Magnus seemed to be a jovial man, ruddy and plump and always with at least one of his hunting dogs at his side; she had instantly liked him. His wife, on the other hand, Margaret could most politely describe as a _shrew._ _Lady_ Judith (for she insisted upon the title) was thin, pretty, poised, and expected all others to meet her rather lofty standards.

When she’d first spotted Margaret’s wild chestnut curls, sun-freckled skin, and slightly-too-large brown eyes, her lips had immediately pursed into what had been quickly dubbed _the face._

In her first few days at the castle, Margaret had become quite well-acquainted with _the face._ Sometimes she earned it by skipping in the hallways, or for exploring the castle at odd hours when she wasn’t fully ‘dressed.’ Sometimes it was because of her table etiquette, for while she’d always considered herself quite well-mannered, it was not enough to impress Lady Judith.

Today, Margaret had earned _the face_ for ‘gossiping with the help,’ which was apparently something _just not done_ by well-bred young ladies. She’d taken her scolding with no complaints, as she always did; she knew the way of world, and practically-orphaned fosterlings were very low on the ladder of household authority. And truly, she was running out of places to go.

Now, however, night had fallen, and she was quite certain that she could explore the dreary, sleepy castle without anyone noticing. There was something intriguing about the place, something… well, she didn’t know _what_ it was, and she sincerely doubted that it was supernatural, as the maids had so vehemently claimed, but it called to her.

She padded down the cold stone steps in stockinged feet, a dark green shawl wrapped around her shoulders both to protect her from the chill and to hide the bright white of her nightgown. Finding a tower window with a rather impressive view, she peered out into the darkness, the black lake barely visible even under the moonlight, dense forest stretching out on all sides into the distance.

It was then that Margaret felt the prickling sensation of being watched.

Goosebumps broke out across her skin, and her breath froze, some primal, fearful instinct kicking in to warn her of _something,_ something not quite _right._ But what?

 _Look closer,_ a voice in her head whispered, and she leaned near to the window, straining to pick out anything distinct in the murky gloom. _There._ A shadow, just _barely_ darker than those around it, stood at the edge of the dock.

Staring straight at her.

Margaret clasped her hand over her mouth to suppress her startled shriek, ducking away from the glass and pressing her back to the cool stone beside the window as she tried to catch her breath.

She told herself to be rational - there was really no reason to think that a shadow would be _staring_ at her; it wasn’t as if it had a face. And even if it was, it was likely just one of the local villagers, unable to sleep and out of bed for a solitary walk, just like her. It was nothing more than a coincidence, she was certain of it.

But when she peeked back out the window and could not find the shadow again, a shudder ran through her that she could not entirely explain.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Margaret escaped the castle and went down by the dock to investigate. She’d hoped to find footprints, perhaps, or some sign that a rather tall person with a rather tall shadow had been trekking about in the mud near the lake.

She found nothing.

Instead, the pricking feeling returned, though this time, it came from behind her. _Look,_ that inner voice whispered again, low and insistent. Slowly, she turned, instinct drawing her eyes up to the window where she’d stood the previous night. She squinted against the glare of the windowpane; there was nothing there.

The rest of the day passed with Margaret in a rather irritated mood, ashamed that she was letting old wives’ tales go to her head so quickly. The castle admittedly looked a bit depressing, and it was unfamiliar. Surely, her unoccupied mind was simply playing tricks.

In an effort to remedy this, she decided to take up her sketching again, unpacking a trunk she hadn’t opened in quite some time and pulling out her paper and pencils. She spent most of the afternoon drawing the view from her window, which did, at least, have a tragic sort of charm.

But when Margaret returned to her chamber after the evening meal, her pencil was not where she’d left it.

It was a small enough thing, and she hurried to excuse it; perhaps one of the maids or servants had stopped by and accidentally bumped it from its place, or maybe she simply had not remembered correctly where she had placed it in her hurry to get to dinner.

None of these explained why the pencil would be propped upright on the windowsill, purposefully and precariously balanced against the frosty glass.

The only explanation that she could come up with was that someone was trying to play tricks on her, as the newest resident of the castle, and that they thought her an easy target. Well, Margaret thought, she may be young, but she was certainly not naive. Whoever thought that they could frighten her was going to be sorely disappointed. She snatched the pencil down from the ledge and put it back in its case, making certain that the latch was securely closed.

That night, she dreamed of a laughing man with hair as black as the lake at night and light-colored, nearly lumescent eyes. She stood frozen by the window, watching the reflection in the glass with a sort of terrified fascination as he appeared behind her, his form coming into focus as he towered over her shoulder. It was impossible to look away, or even to blink, and he kept his eyes locked on hers as he leaned down to whisper in her ear: _“Welcome, Margaret.”_

Waking with a start, she found that it was just after dawn, and she scrambled free from her blankets and rushed to retrieve paper and a pencil, quickly sketching out what she could remember of the strange man’s form before her dreams faded in the morning light. _My imagination,_ she told herself, _is getting the better of me._

The face she’d captured on paper was handsome, more handsome than anyone she’d ever seen, in fact, though his eyes and his smile had seemed rather malevolent in her dream. In her drawing, his appearance was closer to one of melancholy. _Why did I dream you up?_ Margaret mused, staring at the paper in her hand. Perhaps she had simply reached the age where girls became romantic and silly, pining over dark, handsome strangers who would come and sweep them off their feet like some sort of romantic fairytale.

Snorting in disdain at the idea, she set the sketch aside. _Unlikely._

 

* * *

 

Two nights later, Margaret found herself groggily wakening in the middle of the night, the sensation of a heavy, icy sort of weight upon her breast. Blinking rapidly, she pushed herself up on her elbows, and the heaviness vanished at once, though the chill lingered. She pulled her blankets up around her chin, peering into the darkness. Feeling a bit mad, she squared her shoulders and whispered fiercely across the empty room, “If there is someone here, I would _greatly_ appreciate it if you would stop disturbing my sleep.”

There was no reply, of course, and she lay back down, feeling slightly foolish. She was nearly asleep again, or perhaps she was entirely asleep already, when she heard his amused voice purring in her ear. _“No.”_

 

* * *

 

Her maid Brunhilda noticed the dark circles under her eyes the next morning when she came to rouse her for breakfast, and she kindly inquired as to how Margaret had been sleeping, and if there was anything that she required.

“I am quite pleased with my accomodations,” Margaret assured her, “but I have been having the strangest dreams.” Knowing how superstitious the inhabitants of the castle seemed to be, she was hesitant to tell Brunhilda any of the specifics, or to share her drawing, but she _did_ request more blankets. “It gets rather drafty in the night,” she said. And she reassured herself, once again, that it was _not_ due to any invisible nighttime visitors.

 

* * *

 

She slept soundly through the following few nights, though she did occasionally catch glimpses of his face in her dreams. The indentation on the pillow next to her own every morning became something she steadfastly ignored. Secretly, she feared that the constant gloom and loneliness surrounding the castle were beginning to make her lose her senses.

During the day, whenever she could slip away from Lady Judith or the maids or her chatty, childish cousins, she would prowl about the castle, hoping that she might find him somewhere. Perhaps the man in her dreams was simply a servant or a villager that she’d seen when she’d first arrived, and his image had somehow burned itself into her tired brain. She could not find him.

But she felt the prickling, unpleasant sensation of someone watching her more and more, and she could practically hear his laughter echoing in her ears as her frustration grew higher and higher every day. When she woke up midway through her second week at the castle to the feeling of something featherlight sweeping across her cheek, she shrieked and swatted at the empty air. “What _are_ you?” she cried. “Why do you torment me?”

Predictably, there was no reply. She slept no more that night.

 

* * *

 

Uncle Magnus held a banquet in honor of his birthday three weeks after she’d arrived, and Margaret was immensely thankful for the distraction. With all of the added hustle and bustle of the servants and the arrival of guests who would be staying for several days, it was easy to distract herself from the unsettling presence that seemed to have grown rather attached to her. In fact, she’d had no unexplained occurrences for several days, and she began to hope that she’d just been being rather silly, perhaps as the result of the stress of travel and the unfamiliar climate.

The maids managed to smooth her hair into soft, pretty ringlets, and she elected to wear a rather lovely green dress that her father had sent her; she knew her uncle would be pleased, and she dared to hope that her aunt might be satisfied, as well. Brunhilda had offered to powder over Margaret’s light dusting of freckles, but she had waved her away. “I do not care who I impress,” she’d assured her.

The hall was brighter and more festive than she’d ever seen it, and for a moment, her spirits were lifted. A blazing fire crackled in the hearth, and even spiteful Lady Judith seemed to be in a cheerful mood, likely enjoying the chance to show off to all of her friends and relations. Tucking into her meal, Margaret relaxed, smiling as she chatted with her neighbors.

However, as the evening grew late and her regular bedtime passed, she became increasingly aware of the sensation yet again, first a faintest prickling on the edges of her senses, then a chill as what she _assured_ herself was simply a draft breezed against her hair. Her hand tightened on her knife, stiffening as she glanced around the table. Could _they_ not feel something amiss?

Then, the laughter again: _“No.”_

Blanching in fear, for now she _knew_ she must be losing her wits, Margaret excused herself from the table, hurrying up the stairs to her chamber, trying valiantly to ignore the sound of footsteps trailing along behind her. When she’d arrived at last in her room, she latched the door with shaking fingers and collapsed on her bed, sobbing quietly into her hands. _I am going mad,_ she despaired. _What will happen to me now?_

She went rigid at the feeling of something brushing against her hair, eerily similar to a caress. “Stop this, please,” she whispered into her blanket, squeezing her eyes closed. The weight lingered for a moment more, and then it was gone.

Eventually, she cried herself into a deep, exhausted slumber, and in it, she dreamed. She wore her pretty green dress in her dream, though instead of the banquet hall, she found herself in a crumbling old ruin in the middle of the forest. He was there; she knew it, somehow, even before she turned and spotted him striding towards her with a devilish grin. _Perhaps he_ is _the devil,_ she thought, and she tried to speak, but she found that she could not.

Margaret tried to flee, but he cornered her against a large stone plinth, which looked as if it had once supported a statue that was now long gone. There was a slightly vulpine look about him, she realized now, a craftiness in his eyes that frightened her. Her lips parted as she struggled to speak, to demand his name, to scream, but the man seized her by her upper arms and pinned her against the stone, studying her with surprising intensity.

It was the first time she’d seen him fully in her dreams, and he was quite tall, dressed in a strange assortment of silk and leather and metal that looked like no uniform she’d ever seen, though he had a lean and deadly grace that suggested a certain lethality. _A soldier?_ she wondered, and while he did not reply, his brow quirked as if the thought amused him.

He trailed his fingers over her cheeks, and Margaret flushed, having never been quite this close to a man before, even in a dream. “How _easily_ you come to me in your dreams,” he mused, dragging his fingertips slowly across her lips. It was the most loquacious he’d been so far, and she ached to reply, to demand an explanation, a reason for her torment.

As he continued to stroke her bottom lip, her skin began to tingle in a manner that was really rather pleasant, although her fright was too great to fully appreciate it. _This is my dream,_ she told herself, bolstering her courage; she was in control, and there was nothing to fear.

“Are you?” the man asked, smiling again. “Then _find_ me.” He vanished then, disappearing into mist, his bright eyes lingering long after the rest of him was gone.

When she awoke with a gasp, she could still feel his fingers on her lips.

 

* * *

 

Margaret was rather furious with her mysterious shadow after that, and determined that if the castle truly _was_ truly haunted by an infuriating, handsome ghost, she was going to be the one to rid it of him. Even the supernatural must obey _some_ sort of rules, she reasoned. She just had to discover what they were.

After much debating, she mentioned her predicament to Brunhilda, though she spoke only of misplaced items and the sound of echoing footsteps - all rather harmless, relative to his actually _speaking_ to her and touching her. Even so, it had been enough for the maid to turn white, crossing herself quickly as she glanced around the chamber with wide eyes.

“Things happened on this ground,” she confided, “centuries ago, when the pagans still ruled. They said it was cursed by an angry spirit, a heathen god. Some of the villagers still believe, my lady.”

Though, Margaret noted, it was clear from her expression that Brunhilda believed, as well. “Have you noticed any similar happenings?”

“Of course, my lady. But they are mostly harmless, at least nowadays. Our spirits here were said to be quite a bit more… malevolent, back in the days when the castle was first constructed.”

That gave Margaret pause; should a restless, trapped spirit not be frozen in the same state for all of eternity? Could a dead soul _change?_

She next paid a visit to the priest in the village, who seemed rather delighted to have a visitor from the castle. Father Benedict was a kind man, from what Margaret had seen, with a cheerful nature. It had been something of a surprise, for most of the holy men she’d met previously tended to be dour and quite aged, while Father Benedict looked only a few years older than herself.

His brow had furrowed when she’d posed her question - could the demeanor of a wayward spirit change, _hypothetically?_ The look he gave her seemed to suggest that he knew her question went beyond mere hypotheticals.

“I do not know,” he replied, shrugging helplessly. “But I can offer my thoughts. We tend to think that spirits trapped in this world are _waiting_ for something, yes? And when that _something_ is achieved, they are free to move on to the afterlife. I cannot imagine why one would change; it is not as if they are living. They are only shades.”

“That is similar to my way of thinking,” Margaret said, frowning.

“Do you need help with something, my child?”

“No,” she said. “At least, I do not believe so. I’ve noticed some strange things about the castle, and the servants insist that it is the work of ghosts.”

“Ah, I see.” He sat back and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I have heard quite a bit about the spirits surrounding this place, of course, though I have never encountered any myself. I must admit that I am intrigued by the mystery of it all.”

Margaret laughed; she understood his curiosity all too well. “Would you like to join me in my investigation, Father Ben?”

His blue eyes crinkled at both the offer and the nickname, and he’d happily agreed. She would explore the castle for clues, and the priest would search the church records for any mention of dreadful occurrences or strange sightings.

 _Alright, spirit,_ Margaret thought, tremendously relieved to have found an ally. _Let’s find out who you are._

 

* * *

 

But her ghost seemed displeased by this newest alliance, for when she returned to her room, the glass of water on her nightstand had been conspicuously knocked over, forming a large puddle on the floor. Sighing in irritation, she retrieved a towel and set things to rights, cursing him in her head all the while. _“Find me,”_ he’d said, and now he was punishing her for trying? _Fickle spirit._

She did not feel the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, however, which she took to mean that the spirit had gone elsewhere. Margaret decided to walk down by the lake again, hoping perhaps she might find a clue; there was very little to go on, other than her dreams and the first night she’d seen his shadow.

Even in the light of day, the lake looked dark and almost disturbingly-placid, with only the slightest ripples from the northern wind disturbing its smooth surface. Edging out onto the dock, she peered over the edge, but she could see nothing but her own reflection.

Out of nowhere, a light shove on her backside sent her tumbling headfirst into the icy water. Splashing and spluttering, she flailed to the surface, clinging to the side of the dock as she desperately scanned the area for _something._ “Are you trying to kill me?” she cried. “What if I could not swim?”

She scrambled out of the water as quickly as possible, a dreadful fear overtaking her that something might snag at her ankles; she had no desire to encounter kelpies or water-sprites or any other impossible, supposedly-imaginary creatures that might dwell in the lake’s depths. The wind felt as sharp as a knife as it drove through her soaked clothes, and she hastened back to the castle, dripping and rather wretched-looking.

Of course, as was her luck, she encountered her aunt in the entrance hall, immediately earning her _the face._ “Whatever have you _done_ to yourself, Margaret?” Lady Judith demanded, frowning regally. “You look dreadful.”

“I tripped and fell off of the dock,” Margaret lied, cheeks burning in shame; it made her sound like an incompetent child. _Horrid, wretched ghost,_ she thought. This was all his fault.

“Really, you must be more careful. A lady of your age and breeding should be far more graceful. Change into something dry and stay inside for the rest of the day; a storm is moving in, and the last thing we need is for you to catch a chill.”

Her embarrassed flush deepened at the chastisement, and she hurried to return to her room, eager to be warm and dry once more. Except, when she was finally alone in her room, Margaret realized almost immediately that she _wasn’t_ actually alone. She felt the vague sensation of someone standing somewhere behind her, and she stiffly turned from her mirror to find an inexplicable shadow occupying the corner behind her door.

Margaret swallowed thickly, for this whole situation suddenly seemed a bit too _real;_ she was not entirely prepared to deal with the reality of a mysterious entity face-to-face in the cold light of day. In fact, she wasn’t even _entirely_ certain that the thing had not just attempted to drown her, and her shivering grew stronger as the fear and adrenaline rushing through her veins mixed with the bitter chill.

Wrapping her arms around herself, for she suddenly felt incredibly aware of just how thin and clinging her soaking dress seemed, she cleared her throat uncomfortably. _“Were_ you trying to drown me?” she ventured hesitantly. “Did you come to finish me off, then?” The shadow did not move, and Margaret took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “I am going to undress now. I must ask you to leave.”

His laugh crept through her mind then, deep and smooth, and the fading blush on her freckled cheeks suddenly sprang back to life in full force. “Fine,” she muttered. “You are probably just some strange figment of my imagination, in any case.”

She turned back to her mirror and quickly stripped off her wet gown and stockings, trading them for a cozy dress and housecoat, pointedly ignoring the looming presence in the corner. “I’ve had quite enough of you,” she continued, snagging a book off of her desk and clambering onto her bed. “If there is something you wish for me to know, you’d best get out with it at once.”

After a few more moments of heated glaring, the darkness in the corner seemed to fade away, and she heaved a sigh of relief. Perhaps tomorrow, it would be wise to visit Father Ben again, and this time, she was tempted to tell him _everything._

 

* * *

 

Sleep overtook her before she’d even had a chance to realize, and Margaret opened her eyes to find herself standing in front of her dressing table mirror, entirely naked. Her eyes widened in shock, and she tried to cover herself, but she could not move. _Him,_ she seethed, glaring at her reflection as the strange man came into view, an increasingly-familiar smirk plastered on his face. Her own face turned scarlet; how _dare_ he!

“Oh, I dare _quite_ a lot,” he said easily, drawing nearer and nearer until she could feel the cold leather and metal of his strange clothing pressed against her back. _This is a dream,_ she reassured herself, repeating the mantra over and over as he raised a cool hand to push the hair from her shoulder and slowly trailed his fingers down her arm. _This is a dream; this is only a dream._

“Margaret,” the man whispered, wrapping his arms about her waist as she struggled to force her frozen limbs into action, “do you feel my arms around you?”

She nodded sharply, surprised to find that she could do so.

 _“Good.”_ He sighed in what sounded like contentment, sliding his hands across her belly. “I’ve waited _so_ long.” His cold breath against her skin sent a strange, contradictory sort of heat skittering across her skin, and she suddenly felt as though all the air had left her lungs.

But when his fingers began to move towards her breasts, she awoke with a start, gasping for breath as the weak mid-afternoon light streamed through her window. Burying her face in her pillow, she screamed in frustration. That was the final straw; the next time she encountered her ghost lurking about, she was going to take a swing at it, and damn the consequences.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> I've been listening to the song [Your Ghost](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jmZgqk7X8AM) by The Decemberists on repeat for the past week, and I thought, "Hey, how perfect is this for a weird ghost Loki historical AU??"
> 
> It was originally going to be a one-shot, but... I fell in too deep.


	2. Oh, Come a Little Closer

“Have you ever performed an exorcism, Father Ben?”

The priest blinked at her in surprise, setting his teacup delicately down on its saucer. “I have not. Do you think such a think might be necessary?”

Margaret sighed, rubbing her exhausted, aching eyes. “I am beginning to consider the possibility. I was always skeptical of such things, but I believe I’ve attracted a poltergeist.” 

“Really?” he asked, leaning forward with an almost boyish excitement. 

“Yes. Things have been moved in my room, and yesterday, it pushed me into the lake. Believe me, I know it sounds far-fetched, but it is the only explanation that I can come up with to explain what has been happening to me since I arrived here.”

“If this spirit seems to be reaching out to you, specifically, then there must be a reason, surely?”

_ I can only imagine,  _ thought Margaret, turning pink at the memory of his latest visit in her dreams and the way he had touched her. That could not be the cause, could it? There were quite a few other young women in the castle, and even more in the village. If her ghost was a lecher, then she would’ve expected one of the maids to mention it. “Perhaps it is because I am new here, a stranger. Perhaps he is telling me that I do not belong.”

“Does this entity seem to want you to leave? To frighten you and drive you away?”

She shuddered at the memory of how impossibly  _ real _ it had felt, when he’d wrapped his arms around her. “No. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seems… pleased.”

The priest’s eyes widened slightly, and she belatedly realized that she might’ve shared a bit more than she had intended. “Have you… spoken with this creature, Margaret?”

Squeezing her eyes closed to avoid any expressions of pity or disbelief, she dropped her head into her hands. “In my dreams,” she replied. “He has spoken to me in my dreams.”

“You are quite certain that it is a man?” He voice was curious, and perhaps a bit more concerned than before, but she heard no condemnation, and she opened her eyes to find him roaming over to his creaky, over-full bookshelf. 

“Yes,” she said, “and a rather tall man, at that. He has black hair and pale skin, and the clothing he wears is… odd.”

“Odd in what way?”

Margaret struggled to describe what she’d seen, to put words to something that had appeared only in terrifying, mad dreams. “A sort of… armor, I suppose? Green and gold and black. He is well-clothed, but it is like nothing I have ever seen.”

“And what has he said to you?”

“Very little, truthfully. I can never speak, when I find myself in these dreams. He has only bid me welcome and expressed satisfaction that I am aware of him.” Thinking about his blatant disregard for her nighttime pleadings for him to let her be, she added, “and he has refused to leave me in peace.”

“This sounds a bit more serious that you originally led me to believe. I’ll admit that I tend to be skeptical about such matters, myself, but you do not seem to be the sort of young lady who would make up stories for attention.” He pulled a weathered old book from the shelf and took a seat beside her on the settee, opening it to a bookmarked page. “The castle was originally constructed in the twelfth century,” he said, pointing to what looked to be an old map. “The lake was apparently even wider back then. During construction, they carted away the remains of an old stone ruin, and what could not be incorporated into the castle was left in the forest.”

“What was here before that?”

“Very little. There is mention of a village buried by the water, presumably a remnant of local folklore. I could find no record of anyone ever actually seeing the place, or when it might have vanished.”

“Do you suppose he might be one of the inhabitants of this mysterious submerged village, then?”

“Well, my dear, if we are proceeding under the assumption that this entity  _ does, _ in fact, exist, then I would say anything is possible.”

She gave a halfhearted hum of acknowledgement, finding little comfort in the idea that her shadow-man could be  _ anything. _

“Do not worry, Margaret,” Father Ben said, smiling reassuringly, “I will keep looking. We will find answers to this… mystery of yours, I am certain of it.”

“Thank you, Father.”

 

* * *

 

“I know you are there,” Margaret declared, not bothering to look up from her drawing pad. The stormy weather had abated for the afternoon, and she had taken out-of-doors in an attempt to find as much sunlight as she could in this gloomy place. 

“I can feel it when you are watching me,” she continued, adding in the darkness she’d noticed under his eyes in her last dream. It added a hint of vulnerability to his visage, a slight air of humanity. “What are you?”

She glanced up when she heard a slight rustling in the grass, but there was nothing to be seen. “Do you intend to plague me tonight? I would greatly prefer if you would just tell me what it is you want now, while I am not trying to sleep.”

The vague shadow materialized then, several yards in front of the boulder where she sat. “Answer me,” she said, and then, when it did not, she hurled a rock towards its center. 

Her aim was true, but the stone merely flew through him and plopped into the lake. The shadow was suddenly much closer to her, and Margaret was almost  _ certain _ that it wasn’t pleased. The taunting silence continued, and she could’ve  _ sworn _ she made out his eyes, but then the thing vanished. 

Furious, she tossed another stone into the lake. 

 

* * *

 

When she fell into dreams that night, she was mercifully clothed, but he was already upon her before she’d had even a moment to realize what was happening. He stood behind her, one hand tightly fisted in her hair and the other wrapped around her torso, pressing her into the shadows. 

_ Where am I?  _ she wondered, trying unsuccessfully to twrst from his grasp as he forced her head to the side.  _ An alcove? Am I still in the castle? _

She had more freedom to move now, she noted, though it seemed not to matter, for the man appeared entirely unaffected by her struggling. A cold, featherlight pressure slid down her neck, and goosebumps trailed across her skin as she realized that it was his mouth. Still, she could not speak.  _ What is this? _ Margaret shrieked in her mind, trying to force herself awake. 

“You cannot wake yourself, Margaret,” he said, and the fact that she could feel his breath, and that the dream-ghost even  _ had _ breath, somehow made the whole thing even more disturbing. 

“I enjoy these little… visits of ours,” the man continued, lips hovering over her jugular. “There is so much  _ life _ in you.”

Margaret dug her fingers into his forearm, trying to wrest free from his grasp. He was heavy and solid and  _ cold, _ and some part of her began to fear that she was no longer dreaming. 

“Not yet,” he sighed, and the fingers in her hair tightened. “But soon.”

_ Soon? _ she thought, worry spiking. The man did not speak again, turning all of his attention to the delicate skin of her neck, and she struggled more fiercely as heat bloomed across her skin, frustrated that he was coaxing a reaction from her treacherous body. 

By the time she finally awoke some time later, there was a burning, heady sort of need thrumming through her veins. A rather unladylike curse escaped her, and she pressed her thighs together, a deep flush spreading across her cheeks. “Damn you, spirit,” she hissed into the darkness, and then she tossed and turned for the rest of the night, unable to close her own eyes without seeing his. 

 

* * *

 

The next morning at breakfast, Uncle Magnus commented on her tired, slightly-disheveled appearance. 

“You look rather pale, my dear,” he boomed. “Are you well? Are you eating enough?”

“Yes, Uncle. It is only that I have been having a difficult time sleeping. I am certain that it will pass.”

“Let me know if it continues, and I am quite sure the village physician would be happy to stop by.”

Perhaps that was what she needed, some sort of tincture to send her into a dreamless sleep. Though, something told Margaret that her ghost would manage to find her even there. “Thank you, Uncle Magnus,” she said, returning to pick listlessly at her plate. 

She went back to visit the priest, who seemed as though he’d been expecting her, a pot of tea already set out. “Something happened?” he guessed, pulling a few books down from his shelf as he came to sit across from her. 

“More dreams,” Margaret replied. “And I continue to see the shadow. I am growing very tired.”

“You look it.” He smiled apologetically. “I do not mean to suggest that you do not look lovely, my dear, but you do seem rather wan.”

She laughed. “I take no offense, Father.”

“I have been doing a bit of reading on wayward spirits and the like,” he said. “I must confess that I have a fair few books on the subject; I always did find it quite fascinating when I was in school.”

“Father…” Margaret hesitated, feeling that she should be entirely honest with him if she wanted his help, but equally afraid to confess that her ghost seemed rather…  _ amorous. _

“Yes?”

“My ghost, in my dreams… he is becoming increasingly  _ untoward.  _ Why might that be?”

“Untoward?”

She felt the heat creep up her neck. “He has embraced me.”

The priest frowned. “If that is the case,” he said delicately, “then perhaps we are not dealing with a typical spirit.” He took a book from his stack and offered it to her.  _ “De Daemonialitate et Incubis et Succubis  _ by Sinistrari. I did a translation of it several years ago because I found it entertaining and, to be perfectly honest, a bit ridiculous. But now…”

Margaret took the book from his hands, blanching. “You believe that this thing might be a demon?”

“Or, it may simply have characteristics of one. I really cannot say; much of this field is entirely speculative, in any case, no matter what the so-called experts claim.”

“I see.” 

“Perhaps you should have one of the maids stay in your chamber, for the time being? Even if it does not drive the thing away, it might give you some comfort.”

“I do not wish to concern anyone. And truly, Father, I fear that they may think me mad, were I to mention this ordeal.”

“I could speak to your uncle on your behalf, if you wish. In fact, I could offer to bless the entire castle. It is not as though you are the only one to think the place haunted.”

“Actually, that might be for the best. If there is something amiss in the castle, perhaps you would be able to feel it or see it for yourself.”

“I will see myself up to the castle this week, then. And do not worry, Margaret; I understand your desire for discretion. I will leave the particulars out of it.”

“Thank you, Father. What should I do, in the meantime?” She smiled at him, but the priest’s attention was suddenly drawn to a spot beyond her shoulder. 

He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and she froze, goosebumps prickling across her skin. “Margaret,” he said quietly, his eyes remaining fixed on the spot behind her as he rose to his feet, “come stand behind me.”

She stood stiffly, for her limbs suddenly felt like lead, a chill racing down her spine.  _ He is here, _ she realized,  _ and he is angry. _

Once she was behind the priest’s shoulder, she dared to look. The shadow was directly in front of the door, its form tall and distinctly man-shaped, more defined than she had ever seen it. It seemed to thrum with a sort of malevolent energy, which seemed to grow as Father Ben placed a steadying hand on her arm.  _ “Vade retro satana,”  _ he said firmly, making the sign of the cross. 

The thing did not move; in fact, Margaret was almost certain that she could hear his laugh, smooth and low. “Do you hear him?” she asked. “He is laughing.”

“I cannot.”

_ Well, _ she thought,  _ that is worrying.  _ “What do you want, ghost?” she demanded.  _ “Tell me.” _

He disappeared. 

Father Ben fell back into his seat, exhaling sharply. “Margaret, while I already believed you, I must confess that I was still entirely unprepared to actually  _ see  _ the thing.”

“I do not think that he likes you,” she said, noting with irritation that her hands had a slight tremor. “I think he does not want me to seek outside assistance.”

“Possessiveness is not exactly what one might consider a  _ desirable _ trait in a spirit,” the priest remarked dryly. “Although, I suppose we must be thankful that it is not causing physical harm. Not yet, at least.”

“I am going to return to the castle, Father.”

“Do you wish for me to accompany you? I would not be bothered in the slightest.”

“No, but thank you. I would like some time to be alone with my thoughts.”

She trudged back down to the lake after she left the village; while she was still shaken from his sudden appearance in the priest’s little cottage, something drove her to seek out a confrontation. If the spirit did intend her harm, well, she would much prefer to know now. The sense of apprehensive uncertainty only made things worse. 

Following the shoreline, Margaret found herself nearing the woods, and the thick rushes rustled along the edge of the water, stirred by the strengthening winds.  _ Another storm is coming,  _ she thought. That was all it seemed to do here - rain. It would probably be best for her to return to the castle at once, especially if she wished to avoid Lady Judith’s ire, but she ignored her better judgment and kept along her path. 

“Come out, come out,” she called, pushing aside a few low-hanging branches as the path around the river began to become overgrown. “I am all alone, ghost.”

There was a ripple out on the shining surface of the lake, and Margaret frowned, easing closer to the edge. The shadow appeared then, directly in front of her, halting her progress, and she blinked up at it in surprise. Really, this was the closest she had been to the thing during the day; its form was just as clear as it had been in the cottage, and it loomed over her.

“If you will not tell me what you are, I would at least like to know your name.” Stretching her fingers forward hesitantly, she tried to touch where he thought his chest would be, fully expecting her hand to pass straight through the shadow. Instead, there was a strange sort of pressure, a resistance, almost as if she moved her hand through cold water. Gasping, she withdrew, taking a step backwards. 

“Tell me your name,” she said again, hands clenched into fists by her side. How could she convince the thing to be more forthcoming? What did it  _ want? _ “You will be visiting my dreams again tonight, won’t you? Tell me your name, and you… you may kiss me.”

The shadow flickered slightly closer to her, almost giving off an air of eagerness, and she tried not to flinch. Margaret hoped that she was not jeopardizing her immortal soul, making bargains with what might very well be a demon, but she wanted answers, and she had always been rather stubborn when she’d set her mind to it. 

“Tonight, then.” She turned and headed back the way she’d come, shoulders stiff; she could feel his eyes on her until she reached the fork in the path that would lead her back up the hill to the old castle gate. 

 

* * *

 

When she changed into her nightgown that night, it was with a mixture of both apprehension and anticipation, for no matter how much she feared the spirit, she hoped that tonight may be the night she took back some semblance of control. 

It took her some time to fall asleep, tired though she was. Eventually, she opened her eyes to find herself… in her bed. She rubbed her bleary eyes, peering about the moonlit room. Had it not worked?

But she spied him then, stalking forward from the shadows with gleaming eyes. “You came,” she said, then froze, surprised to hear her own voice. 

“Yes.”

Margaret remained petrified as the man moved to sit on her bed, his clearly-substantial form causing a dip in the mattress. Her bargain seemed a much poorer idea now, in the moment, than it had when she’d first offered it. 

The man looked surprisingly solemn, considering how much delight he typically seemed to take in tormenting her. He leaned forward, his lips finally showing a hint of a laugh as her eyes widened. “Go ahead, Margaret,” he said, trailing his gaze down to her mouth. 

She flushed. He was going to make  _ her _ do it, was he? It wasn’t enough that she had to kiss a  _ ghost, _ but he also expected her to take the initiative?

“You called me here,” he reminded her, and now his smug smile was plainly evident. “Have you lost your nerve so soon, little girl?”

Irritation flared at his taunting tone, and Margaret, ever reckless, seized the ghost by the lapels on his odd leather coat.  _ Best to get it over with quickly, _ she thought, and she squeezed her eyes shut and yanked him towards her, pressing her lips to his in a chaste kiss. 

If she’d hoped that this would satisfy the man, she was to be sorely mistaken. He reacted with unnatural speed, cradling the back of her head in one large hand as the other moved to her waist. Margaret gasped in surprise, he took the took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue delving between her lips. 

While Margaret had dreamed of what her first kiss might be like on more than one occasion, this time felt entirely too  _ real.  _ Even worse, perhaps, was the fact that she was  _ enjoying  _ it.  _ It isn’t as if this is really happening, _ she reassured herself.  _ It is only a dream.  _

Eventually, she managed to break away, pulse pounding through her veins, lips swollen and sensitive.  _ Will I have to recount this at confession?  _ she wondered belatedly. How did one properly account for such a sin?

He trailed his thumb across her mouth, pressing into her lower lip, and a dark sort of tremor ran through her. The man smiled. “Loki,” he said. “My name is Loki.”

Then he vanished. 

 

* * *

 

Father Ben stopped by the castle for luncheon the following day, and Margaret spent the entire meal in a sort of guilty excitement; as proud as she was that she’d finally gained the spirit’s name, she was not eager to explain  _ how  _ she’d done so. 

Once everyone had retired to the sitting room, Margaret asked if he might like to take a stroll to the castle library. “I know how fond you are of books,” she said. “Have you seen my uncle’s fine collection?” He readily agreed to accompany her. 

Lady Judith had sent her a sharp look, but Margaret ignored it, looping her arm through the priest’s and leading him into the hall. “I found out his name,” she whispered eagerly. 

“You did? How did you manage that?”

Too embarrassed to admit the truth of her deal with the ghost, she simply replied, “He was much more talkative last night, Father.”

“What did he say his name is, then?”

“Loki. He told me he is called Loki.”

“As in-“

“As in the Norse myths, yes,” she rushed. “So he must be quite ancient, I would think, to have such a namesake; perhaps that lost village of yours dates back to the Viking Age.”

“Hmm. And you said that you actually see the entity, in your dreams? That he has a distinct form?”

“That is correct.” She led him into the library, pretending to peruse the shelves. “He is tall and slim, and he appears young.”

“Is he frightening?”

“In form? No.” Margaret felt the increasingly-familiar heat bleed into her cheeks. “He is quite handsome, truthfully. No grievous wounds, nor chains, nor anything else that one might expect of a tormented spirit.”

“And in manner?”

“He is demanding and intrusive, but has never given voice to any particular threats.”  _ Except for that “soon,”  _ she told herself.  _ That sounded like a threat. What did he mean by it? _

“Margaret, I grow increasingly concerned about this new  _ friend _ of yours. This creature calling itself Loki… we do not know what it  _ wants. _ Is it merely seeking entertainment? Is there some reason that it has made itself known to you, specifically?”

“I know, Father. I am determined to get rid of him.”

He stopped and turned to her, blue eyes solemn. “You look weary, Margaret. Please consider my suggestion to have one of the servants stay with you at night, if only for a little while.”

She  _ was _ exhausted, and she was about to tell him that she  _ would _ consider it, when a book suddenly flew off of the bookshelf by her head and hurtled across the room, smacking into the wall with a loud thwack. The priest jumped, and Margaret shrieked, clapping a hand over her mouth. 

The two stared at each other in startled silence, and her uncle rushed in just a moment later with one of the servants, demanding to know if everything was alright. 

“My lord,” Father Ben said, a rueful sort of expression playing on his lips, “I do believe you have a ghost.”

 

* * *

 

Everyone had gathered back in the sitting room, and Uncle Magnus sent his children away to play elsewhere. “No need for them to worry over any grim business,” he declared, and Margaret wholeheartedly agreed; in fact, the fewer people involved in this conversation, the better, for she did not know how much the priest intended to reveal. 

“So, what’s all this business about a ghost, Father Benedict?” Magnus asked, settling his portly frame into his favorite armchair. 

“A  _ ghost?” _ Lady Judith’s lips twisted into a delicate frown. “Is that what you have been doing, Margaret? Filling the good Father’s ears with tales of nonsense?”

Margaret bit her lip, trying to hold her tongue, and Father Ben, bless him, quickly jumped to her defense. “Quite the contrary, my dear Lady Judith. In fact, I actually just witnessed an episode of  _ unnatural _ activity myself.”

One of the servants gasped and made the sign of the cross, and Uncle Magnus sat back heavily in his chair, eyes wide. “Unnatural activity, you say?”

“A book flew across the room of its own accord. That is well within the bounds of what the Church and I myself might consider unnatural, my lord.”

“Of course, of course.” Magnus frowned thoughtfully, scratching one of his hounds behind the ears. “We have always had stories of spirits and the like here, of course. I have even seen them myself, on occasion. I always just imagined them to be some sort of collective flight of fancy. But if  _ you _ have witnessed them, Father…”

“Margaret,” Lady Judith cut in, “step into the hallway. I would like to have a word with you while my husband and Father Benedict discuss this… anomaly.”

“Yes, Lady Judith,” she answered, casting an imploring glance at her newest friend and confidante as she was led from the sitting room. Father Ben was only able to offer a helpless little shrug. 

“I am terribly disappointed in your lack of tact, Margaret,” her aunt began once they were alone, making  _ the face.  _ “First you traipse about that dreadful, muddy lake day in and day out, making a spectacle of yourself, and now you have dragged the priest into some foolish notion of  _ spirits!  _ I know that you have been visiting him unchaperoned. Was this the reason?”

_ “Unchaperoned?” _ she cried, temper swelling to a level that was truly difficult to contain. “Must I have a chaperone to have tea with a  _ priest?” _

Lady Judith regarded her with pursed lips. “You  _ should _ have a chaperone everywhere, you hard-headed thing! You are of an age to be married, and God knows that it is a burden that will likely fall upon Lord Magnus and myself, as your father seems to have very little interest in you.”

The words cut through her like a knife, and Margaret reeled as though she’d been slapped. “I have no desire to be married,” she said, but the words were wooden and hollow. Her aunt, horrid though she was, spoke to a very real concern; what  _ would _ happen to her, in the long run? She could only rely on the charity of distant relations for so long. 

“Leave the important decisions to your elders. And you will  _ not _ speak back to me this way,  _ insolent _ girl. Go to your room and stay there until you are called for dinner.”

Wilting, she did as she was told, biting back sharp, bitter tears as she climbed up the steps leading to her chamber. She allowed herself the satisfaction of slamming the door, though she immediately felt guilty for it; she did not want to worry any of the servants. 

“I do  _ not _ care if you are angry, Loki,” she whispered furiously, sensing his presence before she’d even had a chance to spot the thrumming shadow by the window.  _ “I _ am angry, too.” And then, furious and humiliated and  _ confused  _ about the strange turns her life was taking, she threw herself down onto her bed and sobbed.

 

* * *

 

As she began to calm herself some time later, Margaret became aware that the tempestuous energy that she had first registered from her ghost now seemed a bit… sedated. She pushed herself up on her elbows, finding him exactly where he’d been when the dam had burst, situated directly beside her large window. Something told her that he would be leaning against the wall, if she could see him more clearly; he seemed the type to casually observe while a girl cried her heart out. 

“Go away.”  _ Nothing.  _ “Or at least do  _ something,” _ she said, eying the expanse of her green coverlet to see if there was anything on the bed that might make a suitable projectile. 

“Is it that you lack the  _ power _ to do anything more? You can only strut about freely in my dreams? How convenient.” Her hand seized upon one of her pillows, and she chucked it at him. The shadow did not move. “You are insufferable,” she continued, wiping the remnants of her tears from her reddened cheeks. 

_ “What would you have me do, little girl?” _

Margaret froze, hand halfway outstretched towards another pillow. “Can you show yourself to me?”

_ “I can.” _

She waited for a moment, ashamed of how disappointed she was when nothing happened. “But you won’t.”

_ “No.” _

“I loathe you.”

Loki laughed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a new chapter here only a day after an update on The Gladiator?? That's how you know it's my Spring Break, folks. 
> 
> Thank you again for the comments/kudos on the first chapter - it's fantastic to know you all are interested in this weird little ghost story of mine! <3


	3. Lulled & Lingered

“Sit up straight, Margaret,” Lady Judith hissed, and Margaret obliged, sighing internally. Did it matter, really, how imperfect her posture might be? Why was she expected to have perfect posture when she was bouncing along a rutted old dirt road in a carriage?

But really, she knew why; Lady Judith’s nephew was en route to the castle, where he would apparently be visiting for quite some time, and Margaret was supposed to make a good impression. While it was a bit of a relief that she was given the opportunity to leave the lake and the castle behind for a bit, the closer the carriage drew to the town where they would be meeting Ernest, Earl of something that Margaret had not bothered to remember, the more her apprehension grew.

Her mind was not as sharp as it ought to be, owing to her constant loss of sleep and the enduring sensation of being always on-edge. Loki had refused to speak with her for the past week, though he did keep up with his regular haunting and general attitude of arrogant entitlement to her space and to her attention.

Two days after Father Ben’s visit, she’d snapped; she’d quickly become somewhat adept at pretending to ignore the sensation of him in the room, and her ghost had clearly taken issue with it. She’d been sitting on her bed, working on a drawing of her uncle’s dogs, when she glanced up to find one of her gowns hovering in the air by her armoire. It hung there for a moment, nearly a foot off the ground, then it dropped to the floor in a heap. Almost immediately, another gown was dragged out of the armoire, and Margaret leapt to her feet in a fury.

“What do you think you are _doing?”_ she cried out, as this dress, too, was discarded on the floor. The next one he pulled out was the green dress that she’d worn at her uncle’s birthday, and this one seemed to demand greater perusal, for it hovered in the air long enough for her to try to snatch it away from him. It was only then that she realized she could see the creases in the fabric where his fingers dug in, and not entirely thinking things through, she angrily swatted at the space where she reckoned his hands would be.

The dress dropped to the floor. Margaret suddenly found her wrists caught by invisible fingers, and Loki suddenly seemed _far_ more dangerous than she’d begun to think, for his grip was strong enough to border on painful. _Does he simply choose when to be tangible?_ she wondered, frozen in shock.

But her tongue recovered more quickly than the rest of her. “Leave me _be,_ ” she hissed, glaring up at where, based on the man in her dreams, she assumed his face would be. “You wretched, cowardly _monster.”_

She had been shoved away then, tumbling onto her bottom on the hard stone floor. Margaret sat there gawping until she felt his presence fade away.

After that, she’d once again been unable to speak in her dreams.

He was _punishing_ her, she was certain of it.

At dinner, she would see his shadow hovering about the corners of the room, though no one else seemed to notice. At night, she would feel him following behind her as she ascended the staircase, causing goosebumps to break out across her skin. She’d occasionally wake up in the night with a heavy weight on her chest, or across her back; she quickly realized that it must be his arms, and a chilling sense of dread consumed her.

He’d become relentless in her dreams, as well, and though he never did more than kiss and tease, she found herself waking up breathless and flushed, cursing his name.

Margaret had dared to hope that the carriage ride would provide a respite, but she was sorely disappointed, for Lady Judith seemed appalled at the idea that she might need to nod off for a bit. Instead, she stared out the window, wondering how far Loki could travel from the castle; he couldn’t simply appear here, in the carriage… could he?

When they finally arrived in town to retrieve Ernest and his impressive array of luggage, Margaret saw the resemblance to her aunt at once - both were thin, with light hair and a disdainful expression that could only come through a long and impeccable lineage. They’d made their introductions with little fuss, and he was loaded into the carriage beside her, complaining rather loudly about his journey.

She tried to tune him out as much as she could, wondering instead if she might be able to sneak away to visit Father Ben in the village once they’d returned. Lady Judith had been rather strict on the matter of chaperonage ever since Loki made a spectacle of himself in the castle library, and she was beginning to feel lonelier than ever.

“Would you care to give me a tour before dinner, Margaret?” the earl asked suddenly, leaning towards her.

She turned from the window, but Lady Judith chimes in before she had the chance to reply. “She would be delighted. Wouldn’t you, Margaret?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, splendid. I do love exploring these historical old castle grounds. They have such an air of mystery.”

 _You have no idea,_ Margaret thought, turning back to her window. _None at all._

 

* * *

 

She felt the familiar sensation of being watched as soon as she stepped from the carriage, though it seemed to come from far away. Peering up at the tower window suspiciously, she thought that she could vaguely make out a shadow behind the glass. If such a thing had happened only a few weeks ago, she would’ve insisted that it was simply one of the servants glancing outside to see what all the ruckus was about. Now, she knew better.

“Where would you like to go, Ernest?” she asked politely, brushing specks of dust that didn’t exist from her skirts in an effort to hide her anxiety.

“We could go down for a walk down by the dock,” he replied. “The sky promises rain this evening, so hiking then will be out of the question.”

“I will call for Jacques to accompany you,” her aunt said, which was a bit of a surprise; usually she expressed utter disdain at the idea that anyone could find the murky old lake appealing.

As they stood by the gate and waited, Margaret noticed a faint rippling out in the darkness of the lake, and she shivered; had the spirit she knew as Loki truly died in some old drowned village, buried under the water centuries ago? She tried valiantly not to think about the way he touched her, for he certainly _seemed_ very much alive.

Their manservant escort finally appeared, and the trio began the trek down the hillside to the lake. Ernest, it seemed, hadn’t thought things through, for he quickly seemed to fall into despair about the mud that began to accumulate on his shoes and trousers. Margaret tried not to laugh as Jacques reassured him that the maids would have no trouble setting him to rights before dinner.

“Do you know anything about the lake, Jacques?” she curiously inquired, stepping out onto the dock. “You are likely a much better tour guide than myself, since I have only recently begun to reside here at the castle.”

The servant stayed on the shoreline, looking a bit uncomfortable. “Well, miss, it’s been here as long as anyone can remember. Some of the locals consider it a place of ill fortune.”

“Why is that?”

“Some claim to have seen spirits, creatures. Things that are best avoided by God-fearing folk, miss.”

“How is the fishing?” Ernest asked, joining her on the dock and leaning over to examine the water; Margaret held her breath, half-expecting the earl to go flying into the lake. But nothing happened, and he stepped back, a disappointed sort of frown on his lips. “It looks rather inhospitable.”

“You can fish in it, my lord,” Jacques replied. “But not many do. Days with good weather for fishing are rare around here; most quickly lose interest after sitting out on a boat in this wind for a while.”

“I see. Perhaps we will have a clear day soon.”

That seemed to be the full extent of the earl’s interest in the lake, so the party dutifully trudged back up the muddy hill to the castle, Margaret ever-aware of the sensation of eyes on her back. But he’d been in the castle, hadn’t he? Had he simply followed them down to the dock? Or was Loki capable of being anywhere at any time? She decided that it would be best if she did not turn around and look, fearing what she might see.

While the idea of having someone else around her own age at the castle had seemed appealing in theory, Ernest was already proving to be a terrible bore, and Margaret was relieved when he excused himself to get settled in his room and change.

“You should change as well, Margaret,” Lady Judith informed her once he’d left the parlour, turning a critical eye to Margaret’s muddy hem. “Your dress is in a dreadful state.”

Her room was empty when she entered it, peering cautiously around the corners for any hints of Loki’s shade, but she neither saw nor sensed his presence. Heaving a relieved sigh, Margaret began to change, wishing dearly that she could simply stay in her room for the rest of the day. If it was truly going to storm as she suspected, it would be the perfect evening to curl up on her bed with a book and watch the rain.

And, though she dared not hope too greatly, perhaps her ghost had decided to grant her a day’s reprieve. Stripped and bare, Margaret stepped in front of her mirror, splaying her hands across her ribs. She was beginning to grow thinner, her bones becoming slightly more prominent even in the short time she’d been at the castle. Although, she supposed that over a month of near-constant haunting was bound to take its toll on anyone. Her eyes were dark and sunken-in, and there was a sort of listless mania there borne of far too many sleepless nights and near-constant anxiety.

 _Well,_ she consoled herself, _at least I was no great beauty to begin with, so it as not as if I’ve lost a great deal._

She poked at her pale cheeks, where her freckles showed in stark relief, wondering if Father Ben’s book was right; maybe this spirit was a demon, and he was trying to drive her mad. Maybe his goal was to make her so desperate for escape that she leapt from the battlements, leaving him to claim her wayward soul. Or maybe he was already killing her slowly, and she just hadn’t realized it yet; she _was_ beginning to look rather sickly.

Digging through her wardrobe, her fingers hesitated on the green dress that seemed to always capture her ghost’s attention; she’d bribed him once before for information - could she do it again? This week of haunting silence was grating painfully on her nerves, and Margaret decided that she actually preferred it when he spoke, as infuriating as it was.

 _I am going to make you talk, ghost._ She put on the dress.

 

* * *

 

Ernest was seated beside her at dinner, and Margaret struggled to make herself an acceptable conversational partner, for he seemed primarily interested in talking about himself, and his life was far less interesting than he seemed to believe.

“The strangest thing happened while I was in my chamber,” he confided, leaning towards her as if they were co-conspirators.

“Oh?”

“The dressing mirror cracked into pieces as soon as I set foot in the room! Can you imagine? I had a devil of a time convincing to maid to finish bringing in my luggage. These country folk are quite superstitious.”

“Goodness me,” Margaret remarked, face carefully blank. _So that is where you were,_ she thought, glancing around the hall; was he somewhere nearby, watching them, or was he upstairs destroying Ernest’s room? Both seemed likely.

“It was likely just old and damaged already,” he continued, “and of course, my aunt said that she’d see to it that I get a replacement immediately.”

“Of course. Were you frightened?”

The earl scoffed. “Oh, no. Such things do not disturb the rational mind.”

 _Do they not?_ she thought, fidgeting with her silverware. She’d considered herself to be a rather rational sort of girl, until she’d ended up with Loki following her about everywhere. “I am glad that it did not make you feel unsafe here,” she said, smiling politely.

He went rambling on about hunting with her uncle only a moment later, and Margaret picked listlessly at her food, forcing herself to eat, though she truly wasn’t in the mood for it. Then she felt a possessive hand on her shoulder, and her spine stiffened; she did not dare to turn around, though she looked to her neighbors at the table to see if any of them seemed to acknowledge someone standing behind her. None did.

The pressure on her shoulder was somewhat easy to overlook, but then she felt him stroking her neck, and she shivered, regretting the fact that she’d not left her hair down. Still, she gamely continued to act as though nothing were amiss, wishing all the while that she could simply turn and throttle him. When she could take no more, she excused herself, hoping that he felt it when she violently shoved her chair back from the table.

“Would you like for me to walk you back to your room?” Ernest offered, and the grip on her shoulder tightened.

“No, thank you,” she managed, retreating as quickly as she was able. “I will be quite alright on my own.”

She felt as though she were being marched to her room like a disobedient child, and her irritation spiked as the ghost steered her up the stairs towards her chamber. Passing Brunhilda in the hall, she did her best to smile, not wanting to cause alarm; what else could she do - scream and cry that a spirit held her in his grip? What good would it do?

Once they were alone in her room, she heaved a tired sigh. “Why did you do that?” There was no response, but the pressure on her shoulder disappeared. Finally giving in to the urge to try to see this invisible threat, she turned, but the familiar shadow was not there. “You broke the earl’s mirror, did you not? Do you simply not approve of new residents in the castle?”

He clearly was not going to respond, and Margaret huffed in irritation, moving to her bed and sitting down heavily upon it. “You wanted me to come up to my room. Is there a reason _why,_ Loki, or was it simply to vex me further?”

Then invisible fingers caught hold of her chin, and she gasped as her face was yanked to the side. Something pressed against her lips, and suddenly he was there, actually there, just as he’d been in her dreams. She shoved against his chest - his terrifyingly-solid chest - but Loki was as relentless as always, and he seemed intent of stealing her breath away.

 _Either this is a dream,_ she thought, _or he has decided to materialize to finally kill me._

He broke away, an amused gleam in his light eyes. “How very _morbid_ of you, Margaret.”

Gaping, she shoved at him again, softly shrieking in surprise when her hands passed through him. “What… what is happening?” she asked, a faint edge of hysteria coloring her voice.

Loki released her chin, glancing down with seeming disinterest at her fingers waving through his semi-transparent chest. “You wished to capture my attention, did you not? You have succeeded.”

“What I wish is for you to stop tormenting me!” Margaret spluttered, scooting backwards towards the head of her bed to escape him. “What are you? Are you an incubus?” She flushed. “Is that why you… you touch me?”

He gave her an odd sort of smile, his dark hair framing his pale features in a way that was strangely transfixing. “Is that what you hope for, child?”

“I am not a child. I am a woman fully-grown.”

“Yes,” he replied, a mocking sort of laugh in his tone, “I am _well_ aware that you are a woman, Margaret. But I am immortal, and you are terribly… innocent.”

The heat in her cheeks flared stronger still. “What are you?” she asked again.

“In case you have not come to realize this already,” Loki said smoothly, entirely ignoring her question, “I have claimed you. I have done my part to keep the local spirits from you, and I warn you that I will not tolerate the interference of mortal men, either.”

Her mind reeled, overwhelmed by unexpectedness of his appearance in the waking world and the fact that he suddenly seemed more than willing to speak with her. “Local spirits?”

“Yes.” He moved closer, skimming his hand along her leg as she ran out of room to retreat. “Many do not dare show themselves when I am near.”

“And why is that?” she asked suspiciously, determined to learn as much from this surprising bout of loquaciousness as possible.

 _“Because,_ Margaret,” he said, baring his teeth in a frightening sort of smile, “they know that I can destroy them.”

“You are not… like them? The other spirits?”

“No.”

She nearly screamed in frustration; why would he simply not _tell_ her what he was? “And how do you suppose that mortal men might _interfere?”_ she asked instead, clutching a pillow to her chest, for her ghost was beginning to develop a look that spoke of impropriety.

“I do not share.”

Her skin crawled; what did that mean? What did he plan to do with her? “Please,” she begged. “Please, leave me alone. Let me sleep in peace.”

The spirit’s brow creased in irritation, and she saw his form begin to fade. “No, Margaret,” he snapped, and then he vanished.

 

* * *

 

That night, she simply refused to sleep, unwilling to give him another opportunity to control her. While it seemed that he could do a great deal in reality, in her dreams, he held all the power. Instead, she began another drawing of him, portraying him surrounded by the stone ruins that appeared so often in her dreams. Though Loki did not make a reappearance - or at least, not one that she could discern - she had no doubt that he would be displeased by her efforts to thwart him.

Her bedroom was cold, and she began to develop a cough partway through the night. _Please,_ she thought, _let me not have caught chill from this wretched weather._ By the time the sun rose, Margaret was rather certain that she was going to freeze to death, and when Brunhilda made an appearance shortly afterwards, she declared that Margaret certainly had a fever.

“I will bring you some tea and more blankets, my lady,” she said, tucking the covers up to Margaret’s chin. “And I will let the family know that you are indisposed. Try to get some rest.”

“Thank you,” Margaret croaked, feeling her dread increase, for while she would get to hide away for the day… Loki was certain to join her.

And sure enough, as soon as the maid had finished her fussing and left her to rest, she saw the ever-familiar shade darken into existence by the window. “Have you come to keep me company?” she asked snidely. “It is likely your fault that I am ill, in the first place.”

_“It likely is.”_

She blinked, surprised that he’d replied so easily, even if it wasn’t aloud. Or maybe it was just the fever, and she was imagining that he was here. _Maybe_ the entire thing was just a fever dream from which she was only beginning to wake.

“I need to sleep. Do you understand? No dreams.”

The ghost… appeared to be _pacing._ How had she managed to end up with a spirit that was both tall and intimidating, but seemed to have the moods of a petulant child?

_“I will grant you this favor, Margaret. But I will be repaid.”_

_You do not deserve repayment for simply allowing me to sleep in peace!_ she internally screamed, but her body seemed more than happy to capitulate, and she sank back against her pillows, wracked by coughing. “Alright, Loki,” she said. “If that is what it takes.”

The shade moved back to his place by the window, but he did not disappear, instead seeming to watch her expectantly. _“Go ahead, little girl. Sleep.”_

Suspicious, she tried to keep her eyes on him, but her lids were heavy and her body ached, and Margaret soon succumbed, her ghost still looming watchfully at her side.

 

* * *

 

She awoke in the early afternoon from blissfully-dreamless sleep, though her relief was short-lived; Loki either had not left the entire time she’d been sleeping, or he had timed his return perfectly, for his familiar shade still lingered by the window. It was storming outside, and a sudden rumbling of thunder shook her to her bones. Still incredibly sleepy, Margaret realized that this must’ve been what caused her to awaken, and she sighed, wiggling back against her pillows.

It was difficult not to freeze in terror as the shadow suddenly moved towards her, for Margaret did not like the idea of owing a debt to such a fickle, menacing creature. However, when Loki _did_ finally reach her side, she simply felt a light pressure against her forehead, and then he shimmered into visibility, spreading from the hand that pressed against her face down his arm,  and then across the rest of him. _Almost as if..._

“Do you need physical contact to be entirely visible?” she blurted. “Is that why you have only shown yourself to me twice?”

He looked down at her, rather perplexed, and Margaret was nearly certain that she’d struck upon the truth. “Your fever is still high, girl,” he said, brushing her question aside. “You are pitifully weak.”

“Well, yes.” She blinked up at him, wondering if he was actually hazy, or if her vision was simply blurred; considering he was a ghost, she supposed either could be the case. “You are killing me, after all.”

Loki frowned, and a flash of lightning momentarily brightened her room, causing her to jump. “The effect should not be this… pronounced.” _What is he saying?_ she wondered, licking her lips; her mouth felt horribly dry. “Call your maid, have her bring a cold compress and something for you to eat.”

“How?” she asked hoarsely, and his lips quirked up in a smile. _And why do you care?_

He turned his head and cupped his hand to his mouth. “Brunhilda!” he loudly cried and Margaret’s mouth fell open in shock, for the voice that he used was her own. The effect was incredibly unsettling, and she shrank away.

“How did you do that?”

He simply grinned and vanished.

 

* * *

 

Margaret tossed and turned restlessly for some time; she’d managed to drink some hot broth, and it had made her feel the slightest bit better. Loki appeared to be off doing… well, whatever it was he did when he was not tormenting her. _Did_ he torment anyone else the way he did her? The intrusive thought of him kissing and caressing one of the maids or the girls in the village popped into her mind, and she was startled to find how much it irritated her.

 _Oh, Margaret,_ she sighed to herself, _jealous over a ghost - you truly are mad._ But she wasn’t _jealous,_ not really; it was simply frustrating to think that Loki might be wreaking widespread havoc without suffering any consequences. Surely that was all.

And what had he meant, when he’d spoken of ‘the effect?’ The effect of _what?_ Clearly he had no qualms with all of the suffering that he had caused her thus far; it was only now that he seemed to show a degree of concern for her lack of wellbeing.

 _So,_ she asked herself, _what has changed? And what is it that he wants with me?_

 

* * *

 

When Brunhilda brought up her dinner tray, there was a note tucked under her saucer, her name written in an elegant, unfamiliar hand.

 _“Margaret,”_ it read, _“I hope that you recover speedily, as your conversation and cheerful countenance have been sorely missed. Yours, Ernest.”_

She stared at the note in her hand, a bit baffled. _What conversation?_ she thought. _What cheerful countenance?_ They’d barely spoken, and much of what _had_ been said was simply the earl voicing his complaints.

He must be terribly bored, she decided. He _had_ been trapped in the castle all day, likely with no one but Lady Judith for company. She supposed she should pity him, but really, the two were so similar in form and mannerisms that she thought that they rather deserved each other’s company.

After she’d eaten as much as she was able, she tried to read for a while, but the words on the page began to swim most unpleasantly, and Margaret decided that it was a futile endeavor. Still, she did not wish to sleep, for Loki always had the nasty habit of popping up when he was most unwelcome.

Eventually, she gave in and succumbed to exhaustion. Upon awakening the next morning, she was startled to find that she remembered no dreams.

 

* * *

 

The spirit did not make himself known to her for three entire days, which she found almost… alarming. She _knew_ that he must be keeping an eye on her, for he certainly did not seem to be the type of creature to simply disappear and leave her be, and the anticipation of his eventual reappearance was nearly as stressful as his near-constant presence.

However, by the end of the three days, Margaret was up and about once more, incredibly eager to escape the confines of her bed; even though she thought of her room as something of a sanctuary, she could only entertain herself by counting the stones in the wall so many times before she feared she’d go mad.

Ernest professed that he was most delighted to see her much recovered, and he joined her in the sitting room, along with her aunt. _Perhaps I should not have been so eager to leave my room,_ she mused, staring out the wide windows to the lake below, which seemed to have swelled due to the days of rain.

“Do you still intend to go fishing, Ernest?” she asked, only half-heartedly caring to hear his answer. Likely, she should be more formal in her address, but he did not seem to mind, and Margaret had never been one for titles.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I am most eager for the opportunity to get out-of-doors, once this dreadful weather permits. I must admit, I believe that all of this time indoors is preventing me from properly exercising my mental faculties.”

“Oh?”

“I have been having the strangest dreams.”

Now he had truly caught her interest, and Margaret turned from the window, perhaps a bit too eagerly, for Lady Judith glanced up from her embroidery with a critical eye. “What sorts of dreams?”

“Well…” Ernest looked to his aunt, and Margaret was glad to find that she was not the only one who feared Lady Judith’s _look._ “I do not wish to disturb you, Margaret, for they are all rather gruesome.”

“Oh, do not worry,” she assured him, “for I have been having incredibly unpleasant dreams, myself. Is there anything… _distinctive_ about these dreams?”

“Margaret,” Lady Judith said sharply, “I hardly think that _gruesome_ dreams are an appropriate topic for a morning’s conversation.”

She suppressed a sigh. What else was she supposed to talk about, the never-changing, horrid weather? “Do you enjoy reading, Ernest?” she asked instead, turning to look back out the window, consigning herself to a day of boredom.

And then her eyes lit upon Loki’s reflection mirrored in the glass, grinning wickedly as he appeared to stand _directly_ behind her, and it was all she could do not to scream.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do *you* think Ghost!Loki's deal is? I'd love to know if you have any theories! <3


	4. Wager All

When she’d turned, of course, Loki was nowhere to be seen, but she could certainly  _ feel _ him there, and that was enough to make her fidget nervously, glancing around the room for any sign of something amiss. Her expression must’ve shown her frantic worry, for Ernest leaned forward in concern. “Is something the matter, Margaret?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

She nearly burst into hysterical laughter - if only he knew how right he was. “I thought that I saw something odd down by the lake,” she lied, “but I believe it was only a trick of the light.”

“A trick of the light and a fanciful imagination,” Lady Judith remarked, and Margaret bit her lip, halfway wishing that Loki  _ would _ materialize right then and there and put proof to her claims. She  _ also _ wished that she could call Judith a dreadful old hag, but unfortunately enough, the woman was neither old nor ugly; it was  _ terribly _ unfair. 

It was, in all honesty, more unnerving when her ghost visited her when she had company than when he appeared to her when she was alone, for at least when she was alone, she did not risk embarrassing herself. It was a fact of which he was well-aware, she had no doubt. 

“Perhaps we should have a party,” she suggested blithely, for surely  _ that _ was considered ‘appropriate’ morning conversation. “I am certain that everyone could use the entertainment, given how dreary it has been. Are you fond of dancing, Ernest?”

The air in the room thickened slightly, some bubbling, unseen tension brewing. Margaret could guess at the source, and she decided to test to see what  _ exactly  _ Loki had meant when he said that he ‘did not share.’

“Yes,” he replied brightly, perking up at once, “dancing is an excellent way to better acquaint oneself with the local society.”

Her aunt, for once, did not appear to be entirely appalled at something she’d said. “It would be entirely within reason to hold a dance to welcome you here, Ernest. I know that you have been quite bored these past few days.”

“You must promise to partner with me, Margaret,” Ernest enthused. “I am sure that you are a lovely dancer.”

“Not particularly, no,” she replied. “But I would be happy to dance with you all the same.”

She felt a firm grip on the back of her neck then, and she almost smiled in triumph, for as terrifying it was that a jealous spirit was able to physically  _ touch  _ her, it was also something of a relief to find that she’d been able to predict his response. 

_ “It is not wise to toy with me, girl,” _ his voice hissed across her ear, though she could tell by the unaffected faces of her companions that it was only in her mind. 

“I will speak with Lord Magnus this evening,” Lady Judith said, “and see if he is in favor of the idea. Though, I am certain that he will be entirely supportive, for he  _ does _ love hosting parties.”

“Splendid!” Margaret shoved herself ungracefully to her feet, pretending to brush her hair aside, but really attempting to swat Loki’s hand away. “I think that I will go fetch my sketchbook from my room,” she said. “Perhaps that will help to pass the time.”

His hand did not leave her neck, and in fact, he practically steered her up the stairs once again, stirring Margaret’s already-thin temper. She let the door swing shut behind her with a loud  _ thunk,  _ and then she stood in front of the large mirror, glaring at the spot just over her shoulder in her reflection. 

“You are touching me,” she snapped, “so you might as well go ahead and show yourself. Is that not how this works?”

Visibility slipped across his form then in a wave of green light, and his glare was just as stern as her own. “You would do well to remember to watch your tongue,  _ wench,” _ he said, and the fingers on her neck tightened as he gave her a slight shake. “Lest you inspire my cruelty.”

_ “Inspire _ your cruelty? You have  _ already _ as much as admitted that you are causing me grave harm,” Margaret pointed out, “and I do not doubt that you would kill me.”

He smiled then, an eerie, unsettling, blade-thin sort of smile. “Do you wish to wager that I could do no worse?” She froze, lips pressed tightly together, as he leaned over her shoulder, eyes glittering malevolently as he watched for her reaction in the mirror. “I can do things to you,  _ mortal, _ that you cannot  _ begin _ to imagine.”

Margaret tried to suppress a shudder, quickly losing some of her fire, for she had no doubt that the creature meant every word that he uttered. “What are your plans for me?”

It was good that she had not truly expected an answer, for he did not offer one. “I will see you tonight, Margaret,” he said instead. “And I know that you shall have  _ sweet _ dreams.”

Then he was gone, and she slumped against her dressing table, taking a few deep, steadying breaths.  _ No, _ she thought weakly,  _ no more dreams. _ She should not have acted so boldly; now, he was going to punish her for it.

But then, she thought, did it even matter, really? He had likely been planning to torment her again, no matter what she did or said. It did seem that he wished to avoid killing her (for the time being, at least), but if he continued as he had been, he would likely drive her mad.

She had to get rid of him. The sooner, the better.

 

* * *

 

For a good portion of the afternoon, Margaret whiled away her time with her sketching, curled up by the window in the sitting room. When Lady Judith left to speak to the servants about the dinner menu, she perked up hopefully, thinking that she might be able to slip away to the village. 

Unfortunately, Ernest seemed intent to linger about, and Margaret huffed in frustration, tucking her wayward curls behind her ears; the weather here seemed to only make her hair wilder, a fact that her aunt was happy to point out. 

“I think that I might return to my room for a nap,” she announced, tucking her sketch pad under her arm. “I am still feeling a bit fatigued.”

“Of course, Margaret,” he replied, looking up from the book he had been reading - or rather, the book he had been  _ pretending  _ to read, for she was rather certain that she had not seen him turn the page in the past hour. 

She made as though she was heading to the stairs that led to her room, but instead she slipped down a side hall and crept to one of the servants’ entrances. It  _ would  _ be terribly unpleasant to go out in this weather with no cloak or sturdier boots, but she did not wish to risk running into anyone. Besides, she told herself, it was  _ hardly _ raining at all; she would be fine. 

Her spirits, already low, plummeted even further as she slipped and trudged down the muddy hill towards the village. True, it was not raining that  _ hard, _ but it was steady, and the wind blew cold and unrelenting, piercing through her dress. 

And it was so  _ grim;  _ everything was grey and bleak for as far as the eye could see, and she tired of it; it was almost as if the very land itself was intent in sucking the joy and the life from her bones. 

She tried to be subtle and avoid notice as she neared the village, for she had no doubt that Lady Judith attended carefully to the pulse of local gossip. Fortunately, it seemed that few were foolish enough to join her outside in such conditions, and she felt relatively confident that her secret would remain safe as she knocked on Father Ben’s door. 

“Margaret?” he said, eyes wide. “What are you doing out in this weather? Come in, come in.” 

He ushered her inside quickly, and she stood just inside the threshold of the door, dripping and rather miserable, embarrassed by the puddle she was creating on his polished wooden floor. “I am sorry, Father,” she mumbled as she pushed clinging strands of damp hair from her face. “My aunt has made it very clear that she does not  _ approve _ of our collective flight of fancy, so I slipped away to speak to you as soon as I had the opportunity.”

“My,” Father Ben replied, “It sounds like you could use some assistance, Margaret. Come along, stand by the fire. I’ll get a towel for you, and we can have a nice hot cup of tea.”

“I do not wish to ruin your furniture,” she said, smiling awkwardly. Perhaps she should’ve thought things through a bit more, but it was too late now, and she could almost hear Lady Judith’s voice in her head, telling her that she’d made a fool of herself once again.

“Nonsense, it isn’t that delicate. Besides, it will dry soon enough.” He hurried from the room, and Margaret moved to stand by the crackling fire, sighing in relief as the warm heat washed across her skin. “Here you are,” he said, offering a thick, cozy blanket. “This will do better than a towel, I think.”

“Thank you, Father.” She draped it across her shoulders, angling her skirts to catch as much of the dry heat of the fire as possible. “I am sorry to appear uninvited, and in such a tremendous state of disarray; I know that it is hardly ladylike.”

“I think that you are a  _ marvelous _ lady, Margaret. I, for one, ascribe to the idea that the Good Lord intended for us all to be a bit unique. Imagine how  _ dull _ life would be, were that not the case.”

She smiled, suddenly hit with the sharp realization that she wished that the kind priest wasn’t a priest at all; how  _ nice _ it would be, she thought, to have someone close to her in age to simply be  _ herself _ with, to laugh and to make odd observations and sarcastic remarks. Though, other than calling him ‘Father,’ she supposed that was exactly what she was doing.

“How have you been?” he asked cautiously, taking a seat. 

“Not well, in all honesty. This place seems designed to drive me mad; I do not know which is worse, dealing with Loki, or dealing with my aunt.” She’d attempted to say it jokingly, but the edge in her voice must’ve tipped him off that she truly meant it, for Father Ben frowned.

“What has he done recently?”

“He is… possessive,” she replied, edging closer to the fire to soak up as much warmth as possible. “And apparently  _ incredibly _ displeased by the appearance of Cousin Ernest.  _ And,”  _ she continued lightly, knowing that her next words were likely cause for even greater concern, “he seems to only be able to manifest visibly when he is in physical contact with me.”

Father Ben coughed at that, apparently choking a bit on his tea.  _ “Physical _ contact, Margaret?”

“Yes.” She sighed, plucking her damp skirt away from her skin, where it seemed to want to cling. “I’ve only seen him in dreams  _ except  _ when he is touching me. That, I think, gives him some sort of ability to materialize.”

“We have to get to the bottom of this. It sounds as if the spirit is… well, it sounds as if he is  _ feeding  _ off of you, my dear, for lack of a better description.”

“I know,” she replied, feeling increasingly glum. “Oh! He spoke of other spirits, as well.”

“Other spirits?”

“Yes. He said that he kept them away, that they were afraid of him, that he could destroy them.” Her brow creased in puzzlement. “How could that be?”

“I suppose that, as we suspected, he must be something other than an ordinary spirit. I do not mean to frighten you, Margaret, but this Loki of yours sounds rather demonic. In fact, the incubus theory is currently at the forefront of my mind. You need to distance yourself from him as much as possible.”

“I have been attempting to do exactly that,” she replied, though it wasn’t  _ entirely _ true; trying to encourage him to talk to her likely did very little to establish distance. 

Father Ben’s expression was gentle. “I know, I know. I do not mean to question your intent. I simply fear the effect that this is having on you. You look… well, your appearance has worsened.”

“There has to be a reason,” she said, sighing. “There has to be a reason that he is making such a noticeable appearance now, with me. If he is truly as ancient as he seems to be, and he claims to be immortal, then is it not strange that he would only show himself now? I would think that someone would have made mention of him before, had he caused such a terrible amount of mischief in the past.”

“I agree. There  _ must  _ be some significance to it. But, please,” he said, gesturing to the armchair closest to the fire, “take a seat. I promise that the cushions will be fine.”

She returned his smile, feeling a bit bashful, and settled into the chair. “So, then, what do we do? Truthfully, I am completely out of ideas.”

“I am actually heading into town tomorrow, and I fully intend to ask some of my more-experienced colleagues what they think of the situation.”

“Father, I am not  _ entirely _ certain that it would be wise for word of this to spread, particularly considering my aunt’s feelings on the matter.”

“They’ll be discreet, I know it. And, no matter what the  _ esteemed _ Lady Judith believes,” he added delicately, “I  _ know  _ that he is real, Margaret. Lord Magnus believes it, too. We  _ will _ take care of this.”

“I know.” Margaret tried to sound calm and collected, but in truth, her mind was frantically spinning. Even after all this time, they  _ still _ did not have a true plan to get rid of Loki, and the fact that he’d be waiting to torment her as soon as she succumbed to sleep weighed heavily on her mind. 

He took her hand with a reassuring squeeze, drawing her from her morbid thoughts. She looked down at his hand, feeling genuine  _ warmth _ for the first time in ages; when he said that everything would be alright, something inside her was incredibly inclined to believe him. But then the warmth bled away, a creeping chill settling into her veins, and Margaret squeezed her eyes closed, trying to keep bitter tears from falling.

“Margaret?”

“He’s here,” she whispered, pulling her hand away stiffly. “Watching. I can feel him.”

The priest’s eyes darted about the room, though he remained remarkably calm, all things considered. “Do you… can you tell  _ where, _ exactly?” he inquired in equally hushed tones.

“No.” She kept her eyes downcast, flinching when one of the logs in the fire suddenly crackled. “I should leave, Father.”

“You cannot think to leave  _ now;  _ he will certainly follow after you, and you will be alone.”

“I know.” Reluctantly dragging the blanket from her shoulders, Margaret stood, carefully draping it over the back of her chair. “But it is better than him staying  _ here.” _ Then, a bit more loudly, she added, “And you  _ will _ follow me, won’t you, Loki?”

The fire flared again, and the good Father stood, reaching out for her. “Margaret-“

“I am leaving, you  _ vile _ creature!” she cried over her shoulder, for she was relatively certain that he was hovering just inside the door, and she took a reluctant step back from the only person who actually made her feel  _ safe.  _ But she  _ had _ to leave, because the last thing she wanted was to put her only friend in danger for the sake of her own comfort.

It was not fair.

“This is for the best, Father.” And then, because he seemed terribly unconvinced, she added, “Trust me, please.”

Though he looked reluctant still, he allowed her to leave, and Margaret hurried out into the rain, a bone-deep chill sinking in as soon as she passed the threshold. 

“Why do you do this?” She knew Loki was there, could practically  _ feel _ him hovering over her shoulder, but at least he had left Father Ben in peace. “I thought that I was to be free of you until tonight.”

A slippery patch of mud unbalanced her as she made the trek up the hill toward the castle, and the sudden, unexpected sensation of a steadying hand on the small of her back made her yelp. Given her ghost’s dreadful disposition, Margaret was halfway-surprised that he had not pushed her down the hill himself, and this tiny display of thoughtfulness left the wheels in her mind spinning.

Father Ben had recommended keeping as much distance between Loki and herself as possible, but distance would not provide any useful information, any real  _ answers.  _ And really, distance seemed like a moot point now, considering the fact that he could essentially do anything he wanted to her once she’d fallen asleep. And  _ outside _ of her dreams, as well, she reminded herself, remembering the kiss he’d stolen. Her cheeks heated at the memory, despite the chill of the rain. 

She decided to try bargaining; the spirit seemed to like games, did he not? “You know, if you are so intent on preventing me from speaking with anyone else, then you had best start engaging in conversation.”

_ “Is that so?” _

Margaret could not tell if his voice held more anger or amusement, and so she decided to hope for the best. Perhaps if she could keep him entertained, he would continue to engage. “How did you perish?”

There was a pause, and her heart fell, certain that her plan had failed. Then, he replied,  _ “I hardly think that is an appropriate topic for an afternoon’s conversation, Margaret.” _

The impression of her aunt was impeccable, down to the slight drawl in her tone, and Margaret let out a startled laugh. “I suppose that was rude of me,” she said, her mind racing for other topics of conversation. He seemed to  _ like _ it when she was a bit… audacious. “Can you tell me more about the other spirits here? Or the history of this castle? I will offer you a bargain.”

_ “What bargain could you offer me, girl?” _

A faint thrum of curiosity tinged his words, no matter how stern he might’ve attempted to sound, and she felt a thrill of triumph. But what to offer him? She needed to think quickly, because the castle drew near, and being caught sneaking about in the rain would be made  _ much _ worse if she was also overseen talking to herself like a madwoman. 

“A kiss,” she replied hurriedly. 

_ “Oh?” _ He was certainly amused, now.  _ “But you know that I can take whatever I want.” _

“One that is freely given, and not in a dream. You would not have to wait until I… until I fall asleep. And I will reciprocate.” 

_ “Odd little creature.”  _ He was so  _ terribly _ mercurial; earlier in the day, he had seemed murderous, and now she had the distinct impression that he was on the verge of laughter.  _ “You bargain away your kisses so eagerly.” _

“Only to you,” she muttered, flushing, and as she felt his fingers tense slightly on the small of her back, she suppressed a smirk; though it was  _ unquestionably _ vexing, she might as well play to his possessiveness. She had very little else to work with, and she reassured herself that it would be worth it, in the end.

Once she was able to rid herself of him.

_ “I accept.” _

 

* * *

 

His presence had vanished away as soon as she’d reached the side entrance to the castle, leaving Margaret to try to creep up to her room undetected on her own. Of  _ course _ he would disappear right when he might prove useful; she wished that she could sense everyone else as easily as she could sense him.

Her best course of action, she decided, was to try to keep Loki occupied and talking as much as possible in the following days, and hopefully Father Ben would have some sort of useful information upon his return from town. If she could get him to explain how he was different from the other local spirits, then perhaps that would provide a clue.

Luck was with her that afternoon, and she successfully bypassed the other members of the household as she made her way to her chamber, though she sincerely hoped that no one took notice of the trail of water droplets she left in her wake. 

She dried herself off and changed into warmer clothes, pulling her hair back into a simple plait in an attempt to hide how wild her hair had become during her little excursion. Other than Loki showing up and chasing her off from the priest’s cottage, the day had been… better than expected. True, that wasn’t saying much, but all things considered, it might’ve been quite a bit worse. 

Lady Judith gave her a suspicious look when she came down for dinner, almost as if she  _ knew _ that Margaret had acted against her wishes; the depths of her disapproval were truly astounding, and Margaret sighed, grateful that she hadn’t actually been caught out by anyone. She could only begin to imagine how the ensuing conversation would go.

Most of the conversation at the dinner table revolved around the prospect of hosting a dance, and she took part eagerly enough, hoping to distract herself from the nervous anticipation that slowly built and bubbled as the time to act upon her  _ bargain _ with Loki drew nearer.

It came as a bit of a surprise when her ghost did not make his presence known during dinner, and even more surprising was the fact that he was not waiting in her chamber when she returned. Margaret frowned in her mirror, hesitant; should she change into her nightgown? Or should she remain fully-dressed?

_ Fully dressed, _ she decided. Knowing him, he was liable to appear as soon as she’d taken off her dress, and she was nervous enough without having to deal with  _ that. _

Taking a seat on her bed, she fussed with her skirts, spreading them around her in what she  _ hoped _ would appear to be a casual, relaxed manner. She then undid her braid, combing her fingers through her hair in an attempt to give it some life. It was still a bit damp; hopefully, no one had noticed. 

Struck with the sudden awareness that she was actually attempting to look  _ appealing _ for a  _ ghost, _ Margaret stilled, cringing with shame. Was she truly so desperate?

_ Apparently so. _

Her heart in her throat, she continued to wait, increasingly suspicious that he was drawing this entire ordeal out for as long as possible to intentionally torment her. Her eyes were heavy with fatigue when his shade suddenly swirled into existence by her window, as tall and as menacing as ever.

Only, he was here on her terms, was he not? She tried to convince herself that this was the case, and that she had nothing to fear.  _ Breathe, Margaret. _

But she  _ couldn’t _ breathe as he moved towards her, more solid than he’d ever seemed before, and when his fingers brushed against her cheek, visibility slipped across his form once again. He smile was leering, and she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake.

_ “Little _ girl,” he said, taking hold of her chin as a mocking light glittered in his eyes, “you are so  _ frightened.” _

“I am not  _ little.” _

“No? But you  _ are _ frightened.” It was hardly something she could deny, and so she kept her mouth closed, heart pounding as he knelt before her. He moved so  _ fluidly, _ and she wondered if she would be able to feel anything if she reached out and tried to touch him. 

“But you are bold, despite your fear.” Leaning closer, Loki’s eyes flickered to her lips, and Margaret tried to keep herself from flinching away. “That is a  _ dangerous _ trait.”

He was  _ clearly _ waiting for her to uphold her end of the deal, and she stalled. “A question, first?”

Loki hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head back to study her under lowered lashes. “It will depend upon the question.”

Her heart sped, startled that he  _ actually _ seemed to be considering it. What could she ask, that he might truthfully answer? “Were you born here?” she finally blurted out. “On this land, I mean. Was this place your home?”

“No. I have not laid eyes upon my own realm in many centuries.”

“Your realm? Where is-”

But lifted a finger to his lips then, shushing her, and Margaret fell silent.  _ “A _ question.  _ One. _ Do not test my patience, girl.”

“Oh.” It was all she could manage to say, and her gaze trailed down his face, trying to steel her nerves.  _ Now or never,  _ she told herself, and she inclined towards him slowly, doing her best to ignore the predatory sharpness in his expression. 

When her lips met his, she expected him to take control, as he’d done before, and she was greatly taken aback when he did not. In fact, he remained almost stock-still, though he did release her chin to trail his knuckles down her throat. 

_ I should have worn a dress with a more modest neckline. _

_ Infuriating _ spirit that he was, he clearly expected her to earn her right for further inquiry, and she groaned in frustration. At the sound, Loki’s hand slid down to her waist and around her back, yanking her to the edge of her low mattress. Her legs were on either side of him then; Margaret was mortified, and so she did something rather foolish: she bit him. 

Loki made a sound that was worryingly similar to a  _ snarl, _ and her terror was immediate. “I am sorry,” she gasped, breaking away.

“No, but you  _ will _ be.” But he did not look  _ angry _ as he said it; no, he looked  _ excited, _ and that was somehow even more worrisome. 

Then his hands grasped her hips and he pulled her forward again, and Margaret slid off of the mattress with a surprised yelp, coming to rest awkwardly straddling his thighs, her back pressed against her bedframe.  _ “Oh.” _

His eyes almost seemed to be glowing. “Ask your next question, girl.”

She tried to ignore the utterly surreal fact that she was sitting in the lap of a  _ spirit,  _ because she wasn’t entirely certain that she would be able to handle it if she did.  _ Focus, Margaret. _ Their theory that he was feeding off of her seemed most pertinent. “Are you… are you using me?”

“Yes.” While one of his hands kept a firm grip on her hip, the other seized her hair, and he jerked her head to the side, surging forward to press his lips to her neck. “Let this serve as a record of our  _ transactions,” _ he murmured, and then a stinging pressure caused her to gasp. 

“Are you  _ marking _ me?”

“Yes,” he replied easily, and then he did it again.

“That… that should not count!” Margaret cried. 

He laughed, and his breath against her sensitive throat sent goosebumps across her skin; much to her chagrin, she was not  _ entirely _ certain that they were solely the result of fear. “You  _ chose _ this game, child.”

She would have to be more careful. “Is there truly a village buried beneath the lake?”

“Yes. It was submerged many centuries ago.” Margaret squeezed her eyes shut as he angled her head to the other side, bracing for the sting, unprepared for the featherlight kisses that followed it. “I witnessed it.”

_ He witnessed it.  _ Did that mean he perished in the flood, or was he already a spirit beforehand? Or perhaps he had escaped with his life, only to meet his end at a later date…

“Have you no more questions?” he asked, breaking her from her musings. 

Margaret blanched, awkwardly covering her neck with her hands.  _ “No,” _ she hissed, “I will already have a hard enough time hiding _ these.” _

The spirit grinned, though it did not reach his eyes. “Perhaps you should consider such things before you make deals with the devil,  _ Margaret.” _ Then, before she could as if he really  _ was _ the devil, he simply  _ vanished, _ and her bottom painfully collided with the hard floor.

“I  _ hate _ you!” Scrambling to her feet, she crawled under her sheets fully-clothed, refusing to undress when she  _ knew _ he was likely still there. “I know that you can hear me, Loki, and I  _ hate _ you.”

There was no response, and strangely enough, she had no dreams that night. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This went wayyy too long without an update. BUT I've already worked on the next chapter some, so yay! 
> 
> Margaret might need to curb her curiosity a bit before things get *too* bizarre. (Or maybe that's a good thing...?)
> 
> As always, your thoughts are loved and appreciated! <3


	5. Liminal Moon

Despite a dreamless sleep, Margaret felt weak and exhausted upon waking, her clothes from the day before woefully rumpled and unkempt. _Damned spirit._ Some part of her wished that she’d simply given in and changed into her nightgown, whether or not he had truly lingered behind to watch her; it would have been far more comfortable.

_Last night._

Springing to her feet, she scurried to the mirror, angling her head to examine the pale skin of her neck. The marks… they were still there, distinct and damning. _So it wasn’t a dream, then,_ she thought, bile rising, and then, _did I truly deal with the Devil last night?_

She had to hide them, and so she dug through her clothing to find something with a modest, high neckline and collar, and then she wrapped a scarf around her neck, as well. At least it was always freezing in the castle - she could make that her excuse, if she needed one. Lady Judith already thought that she had a terrible sense of style, so it would not seem very out-of-place.

And perhaps, if she managed to be crafty enough, she could avoid her relations for the majority of the day; she felt a strong, almost-overwhelming desire to go explore the lakeside. Whatever might have been the actual cause of Loki’s demise, Margaret was absolutely certain that the black lake at the bottom of the hill held some sort of important clue.

_If only I could uncover it._

Breakfast was managed without too much trouble, though she did make an effort to keep her wild hair artfully arranged as an extra layer of protection to disguise the bruises on her neck. In fact, very little conversation was directed towards her at all, aside from chatter about the dance.

Ernest spoke of the hypothetical dance  with great enthusiasm, and the fact that she did not answer with the same level of excitement seemed to be entirely lost on him. Fortunately, Lady Judith seemed happy to steer the conversation, as usual, and Margaret was able to tune everything out and worry over more _important_ things - things such as the ghost who seemed to have acquired something of a taste for her neck.

She shuddered.

“Margaret, dear, I am toying with the idea of sending some of the servants out to deliver invitations to a few of the neighboring estates in the next week or so. I know that you spend all of your time with your little sketchbook and paintings… would you care to draw up some pretty little design to accompany them?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, Lady Judith. I should be able to come up with something.”

“Good girl. I am sure that it will help to keep your mind occupied.”

Margaret suppressed a sigh; not only was her aunt’s patronizing tone grating, but she sincerely doubted that _anything_ could occupy her mind enough to distract her from the fact that she was being most _ardently_ haunted.

“What a splendid idea!” Uncle Magnus chimed in, beaming. “You are your mother’s child, my dear - Mathilda was quite a skillful artist.”

Aunt Judith shot him a disapproving look, and Margaret stiffened, though her uncle appeared to remain entirely oblivious. “You met my mother, Uncle Magnus?”

“Oh, of course, of course. Your father and I spent most of our summers out adventuring together, when we were young. Believe it or not, I _was_ young once.” He winked, and she managed a faint smile. “Pretty little thing, Mathilda - you’re the spitting image of her, Margaret, though I’m sure you’ve heard that often enough.”

Her eyes dropped to her plate, and she suddenly found herself fighting back tears. “I have.”

“Ernest,” her aunt cut in, “what are your plans for this morning? The rain seems to have passed for the time being, if you would like to take in some fresh air.”

“That sounds delightful. Margaret, would you care to join me?”

“I suppose.” It was the most enthusiasm she could muster, considering the circumstances. Though really, she supposed she should give Ernest more credit - at least he did not look at her as if he wanted to _eat_ her. That was more than she could say for Loki.

“We can head out towards the lake as soon as breakfast is finished, then,” he replied, seemingly ignorant to her lack of excitement. “Before the afternoon storms roll in, that is. I _do_ believe that I’m beginning to get a good idea of the patterns of this horrid weather.”

“Why not take a picnic along?” Uncle Magnus asked. “With any luck, the rain will hold out - I certainly hope it does, because I have a good bit of business to attend to in the village.”

Aunt Judith, much to Margaret’s surprise, agreed. “I’ll have the kitchen pack a hamper for you. And Jacques, of course, can accompany you.”

_Of course._ Margaret’s fingers curled around her fork, mutiny brewing in her mind. If only she could give them both the slip… but could she? _Doubtful._ Perhaps even more stressful was the fact that Loki, who was doubtlessly lurking somewhere nearby, was almost certain to cause trouble at any sign that she was disobeying his command to stay away from ‘mortal men.’

She huffed; why should she take orders from a ghost, anyway? Even if it _did_ seem like he might be killing her slowly; playing to his whims wasn’t going to do her any favors. In fact, Loki almost seemed to _enjoy_ her resistance. It was a troubling sort of game, and Margaret had never been very good at games.

 

* * *

 

The lake was as smooth and glassy as polished obsidian, and she stood on the dock with Ernest and Jacques, watching the fog seeping through the dense, wizened trees on the distant shore opposite the castle. There was a strange sort of beauty to it, dark and haunting, and Margaret might’ve appreciated it more, had she not been the subject of a haunting of her own.

“Might we take the boat out now, Jacques?” the earl asked, clearly in a much better mood than she. “The water seems calm enough, I’d say, but you know this lake better than I do, I’m sure.”

Jacques frowned, as if wondering why anyone would want to bother with going out on the lake in the first place. It was one of the few things she had in common with Ernest, she supposed - this _one_ shared curiosity. “It should be safe enough right now, my lord. I wouldn’t go out too far, since the wind is liable to pick up as the storm moves in this afternoon, but it looks to be calm enough for the time being.”

“Excellent.”

Before long, Margaret found herself perched in the bow of a small rowboat, the two men manning the oars. Every stroke sent ripples glancing across the surface of the water, and they spied several answering ripples further out - likely fish coming to explore this new invader in their lake, they decided.

The wind was cold, and the farther they went from the shoreline, the more potent her sense of dread grew. Yet, it was intertwined with an inescapable thread of curiosity, and she scanned the trees that tangled and dipped into the water where the forest and lake met, hoping for a sign.

Some part of her expected to see the stone ruins that Loki took her to so often in her dreams peeking through the foliage, but unsurprisingly, she was disappointed. _I have to go into the forest,_ she thought, mouth set in a determined line. _There will be something there, I know it._

Margaret chatted with Jacques for a time, trying to project some semblance of _normality._ He seemed happy to talk about things _not_ related to the supernatural, and she learned a surprising amount about the cultivation of yogurt, which he was apparently renowned for amongst the villagers.

“That’s the secret to a long life, miss,” he grinned, finally seeming to relax a bit around her. “Wait and see - I will still look like this when I’m as old as Methuselah.”

Laughing, Margaret turned to ask Ernest what _he_ thought of that, but she found him staring intently across the water. She followed his gaze, but saw nothing but ripples; even so, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “Is something the matter, Cousin Ernest?”

His eyes did not leave the water, and a frown creased his brow. “I thought that I saw…” But then he shook his head, turning to look back at her. “I am sure that it was nothing, Margaret. A trick of the light, most likely.”

Jacques, a bit pale, made the sign of the cross, mumbling something under his breath.

“Oh, come now, my good man,” the earl scoffed, though Margaret noticed he looked a bit peaky himself. “Surely you don’t actually believe all of these ridiculous superstitions about this lake.”

“The lake, the castle, the forest… yes, my lord, most of us who’ve lived here for any amount of time do put stock in some of the old tales. If I might be so bold, my lord, I would not be surprised if you do, as well, if you spend any amount of time here.”

“What are some of the tales, Jacques?” Margaret asked quickly, hoping that perhaps now he’d be in a more forthcoming mood. “About the lake, in particular, if you know any.”

“Well…” He hesitated, but Ernest was clearly interested now, as well, no matter how much he might decry the idea of the supernatural, and the servant cleared his throat; she had a feeling that he could not resist telling a good story, providing the audience was so invested.

“I would be delighted to hear it,” Ernest added, setting his oar aside as they drifted in the middle of the lake. “Local folklore can be rather fascinating, after all.”

_He must’ve seen something truly strange,_ _to have changed his tune so quickly,_ she thought. _But what?_ Had it been her ghost? Would Loki reveal himself so blatantly?

For some reason, she doubted it. But then what else could Ernest have seen?

Jacques put aside his own oar, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air. “Spirits,” he said. “There are tales of spirits that live below the lake surface, water nymphs and sprites that linger from the days of the pagans.”

“And elf-kind,” he added, gesturing towards the dark forest that sprawled up the far hillside from the lake edge. “Not gentle, friendly spirits, but the type that lure women and children up into the hills, never to be seen again. This entire valley is said to be cursed.”

“All due respect, Jaques, but if that is so, why has the village remained here for so many generations? And why _here,_ of all places?”

“To your first question, my lord, I can only say that this is _home.”_ He shrugged. “And it always has been. To your second… well, supposedly there was a temple here, in ancient times.” Margaret felt goosebumps break across her skin as Jacques lowered his voice, almost as if he feared being overheard. “A temple to a wicked pagan god. It’s said that young maidens were sacrificed to him, and that the land surrounding is irrevocably tainted.”

Ernest frowned, looking back across the water. “Well, it does certainly look the part, doesn’t it, Margaret?”

“It does,” she agreed.

“The light never truly comes here,” Jacques said. “Even on our sunniest, clearest days, the lake still holds a cast of shadow.”

The earl snorted. “And does this _wicked_ pagan god of yours have a name, Jacques? Or has that been lost in history, along with any concrete proof of these superstitious claims?”

Taking a deep breath, Jacques glanced back towards the castle, then mumbled something under his breath - Margaret could barely make it out.

_Crux sacra sit mihi lux. Let the Holy Cross be my light._

She shuddered; was he truly so afraid just to speak a _name?_

“We avoid speaking of the names of these creatures, in the village,” he said. “For fear of drawing the attention of evil. Not many know his name these days, but my grandmother told me; she was a wise woman, and she kept to some of the old ways.”

“Just get on with it, man.” Ernest sounded irritated, but she could tell that he was nervous, as well; the black lake surrounding them really _did_ do quite a bit to heighten the atmosphere for a haunting tale of the old gods.

_“Loki,”_ he whispered, and Margaret stopped breathing. “Loki, God of Lies.”

 

* * *

 

How she’d managed to get back up to the castle with a bland smile on her face, she’d never know, but Margaret supposed she must be a much better actress than she’d imagined, for her companions showed no signs of noticing that anything was amiss.

She wanted to scream.

_Loki, God of Lies._

_The_ Loki, of Viking myth.

A god.

A _wicked_ god, who apparently had a fondness for virgin sacrifice.

As soon as they were indoors again, she raced up the stairs to her room, struggling to breathe; it felt as if a cold hand was crushing her heart. He _was_ going to kill her. She’d told herself that she wasn’t afraid, and that she was clever and bold enough to find a way to rid herself of him, but now…

Now, the entire ordeal seemed so, _so_ much worse.

Because if Jacques’s folktale was _true,_ that meant that Father Ben had been right in his fears; she was not dealing with an ordinary spirit, some wayward soul that simply needed to be steered towards the eternal beyond. No, she was dealing with something ancient.

_Some eldritch evil._

And she had dealt with him freely, had _kissed_ him of her own volition, simply for _answers…_

_Like Eve with the serpent, dooming herself in her search for knowledge._

The goosebumps were still scattered across her skin, the feeling of dread from the lake still clinging to her skin, cold and heavy. Margaret curled up into a ball on her bed and cried.

 

* * *

 

Loki appeared in her room before she’d managed to pull herself together again, a half-visible blur by her window, and she burst into tears all over again, for now that she realized the true gravity of her circumstances, her bravado seemed to have failed her. The shade moved towards her, then hesitated, giving off a vague, agitated sort of energy.

There was a part of her mind that urged her to be logical - he had not killed her yet, after all, and he seemed to enjoy their bargaining. It would be best if she kept the same attitude while she found a way to expel him from the castle grounds.

But another part of her, some primal instinct to _survive,_ reminded her of the ruins he took her to in her dreams and the remains of his temple that likely still stood out in the deep forest, crumbling and stained with innocent blood. That part of her cried out the loudest, and Margaret felt the icy rush of panic speed through her veins.

She scrambled back on her bed as he began to approach her again, her fingers digging desperately into the coverlet. “Please,” she sobbed, _“please,_ don’t kill me, I beg you.”

There was another moment of hesitation, and then she was grabbed by the ankle and yanked viciously towards him, sprawling flat on her back as he took shape above her. “I am not currently _trying_ to kill you, little fool,” Loki snarled, “but if you do not cease this wailing, I _might.”_

Margaret clamped her hand over her mouth as he glared down at her, not trusting herself not to scream. Her trembling, however, she could _not_ control, and Loki’s eyes narrowed as he watched her shake beneath him. “What is this?” he asked.

Dropping her hand away, Margaret licked her lips, trying to make words take form before she angered him further with her silence. “You are Loki,” she whispered. _“God of Lies._ The Chaos God of the ancient North.”

Something in his expression tightened for a moment, gone again almost as quickly. “No longer.”

As much as she wanted to know what his words meant, it was all she could do to even breathe, and so she simply stared up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. _I don’t want to die,_ she thought. _Not in this dreadful, cold, gloomy place. Not haunted and cursed by some ancient, cruel deity._

For a moment, he simply watched her, his grip on her ankle tightening. “Do not go out onto the lake, Margaret,” he finally said.

Oddly enough, her mind began to quiet somewhat, her curiosity peeking though the cloud of panic that had consumed her so overwhelmingly. “The lake? But _you_ once pushed me into the lake…”

“That was before,” Loki snapped, impatient. “I am telling you _now_ to stay away.” He leaned closer, until his nose was mere inches from her own, his eyes unsettlingly hard. “You _will_ heed my words.”

Then he released her ankle and vanished so violently that Margaret heard the crack of it as he stormed off in a rage - to where, she could only guess.

She gathered her sketchbook and retreated to the drawing room, so eager to be around any living company that she was almost _thankful_ to find her aunt and Cousin Ernest in the room. As she settled back into her seat, she glanced around furtively for signs that Loki might be watching.

He was nowhere to be seen.

 

* * *

 

Margaret stood on the stair landing landing that night, peering out the window at the dock; she’d thought she’d spied a light from her bedroom window, but she could not make it out clearly from the angle of the glass.

From this vantage point, the very-same spot where she’d first thought she’d spied her ghost, she could make out a figure standing out at the edge of the dock, evidently holding a lantern. Something seemed _wrong_ \- if it were Loki, he would hardly need a lantern, and she knew by now that none of the villagers were liable to stroll around the lake in the middle of the night.

She squinted; it seemed that the distant, blurry figure might have rather fair hair, and he appeared tall and thin…

Her heart sped. _Ernest._

Margaret cursed to herself as she raced downstairs, grabbing one of the servants’ cloaks on her way to the side entrance to the castle that she’d come to think of as her own personal passageway. Was this Loki’s doing? Was he luring her cousin out to drown, as he’d almost done with her, back in the beginning?

_That is why he told me to stay away from the lake,_ she thought, a righteous sort of fury springing to light in her heart, pushing aside some of her fear. _How dare he?_

In her haste, she did not bother to fetch a lantern, and so she skidded and slipped down the muddy hill in the dim moonlight, the cool night air pricking through her cloak and thin nightgown. “Ernest,” she called out, trying to keep her voice low enough that she wouldn’t risk rousing anyone in the castle.

He did not seem to hear her. In fact, Cousin Ernest did not seem to be aware of much of anything, and Margaret wondered for a moment if he might be walking in his sleep; one of the relations that she’d stayed with as a child had been affected by a similar condition.

As she grew nearer to the dock, however, she felt the familiar feeling of impending calamity crawl across her skin, and she quickened her pace; _this_ was no sleep-walking - not due to natural causes, at least. “Ernest!”

The earl was wearing a nightshirt and trousers, and she’d never before seen him so unkempt; he was normally impeccable, and he looked now as though he’d just crawled out of bed, his flaxen hair sticking up at odd angles. The lantern in his hand was held out over the water, and his eyes were fixed across the lake, his toes on the very edge of the dock.

“Margaret,” he whispered as she reached him, startling her so badly that she almost cried out, “do you hear that?”

She strained her ears, but all she could here was the wind and the lapping of the lake on the shore. “Hear what, Cousin Ernest? What do you hear?”

“The singing.”

He shifted forward slightly, and Margaret gasped, grabbing him around the waist and dragging him backwards with all of her might. They tumbled to the rough wood of the dock, and the lantern splashed into the water, quickly snuffed out.

_The impropriety._ She could almost imagine Lady Judith giving her the face of disapproval as she scrambled to right her skirts, kneeling beside Ernest, who looked worryingly pale and dazed from what she could make out of his face in the faint moonlight.

“Margaret?”

“Ernest,” she whispered, clasping his shoulders and giving him a sound shake. _Propriety be damned_ \- she wasn’t going to stand by while the man threw himself into the lake at the behest of a jealous spirit. “You said you heard singing.”

He blinked slowly. “Yes… yes, I…” Raking his fingers through his hair, he glanced back across the water, then turned to her with a look of genuine fear in his eyes. His next words were nearly inaudible. “I heard singing.”

She shook him again. “Do you hear it now?”

Ernest closed his eyes for a moment, and Margaret could feel her heart in her throat as she waited for his reply. “No,” he said at last. “No, I believe that it’s gone now.”

“You _believe?”_

“There’s almost an… an echo.” He shook his head. “I must’ve been dreaming. Perhaps it’s something about this climate.” The earl clambered to his feet, pulling her up beside him.

“Ernest, we’d best go back to the castle now.” There was an underlying current of strain in her voice, for while Ernest’s singing might have disappeared, her feeling of apprehension remained.

“Yes, you’re right.” She kept her hand on his arm as they slogged back up the hill in the dark, both to steady him and to steady herself. “Margaret?”

“Yes?”

“Would you… could you not make mention of this to Aunt and Uncle?”

Her heart warmed slightly at the embarrassment and worry in his tone; she much preferred this newfound openness of his, despite the unfortunate circumstances. “Of course. It will be our secret.”

They remained silent for most of their trek, focusing instead on not slipping and tumbling into the mud. The rain began to fall, a light drizzle, though she had no doubt that it would soon be a storm.

Ernest put his hand on hers once they were inside the door, drawing them to a halt. “Have you heard things as well?” he asked hesitantly. “Since you have been staying here?”

Margaret’s lips turned up in a wry smile. “Not singing, no. But you know already that I have seen things. Though Lady Judith does not believe me, of course.”

Could she possibly convince him to join her in her investigations? She wasn’t certain; he _was_ very much like their aunt, after all, the kind of person who preferred to deny what did not fit within the scope of the known.

“I see.” The earl was clearly shaken, and he gave her hand an absent-minded pat.

“Ernest, I _believe_ you. Do not doubt that you can share with me the things you see, or hear.”

He smiled faintly. “Thank you, Margaret. I will keep that in mind.”

They parted ways, and she hurried to bed, eager to avoid notice.

It was unsurprising, almost, that the shade of her ever-present spirit was already waiting for her, hovering by the window, malevolent and practically-solid.

He moved towards her quickly as she stepped over the threshold, the door snapping closed behind her of its own accord; Loki must’ve been watching her through the window, she realized, and she pressed her back flat against the wood, both furious and fearful in the face of his malevolence.

_“What did I tell you, child?”_

It was unsettling to hear him in her mind again, after growing somewhat used to dealing with him while he was tangible. “To stay away from the lake.”

Loki grabbed her by the chin, and suddenly he was _there,_ eyes cold and almost-hypnotizing. “And what did you do?”

“I…” Margaret’s voice cracked. “I went to the lake.”

“You disobeyed me.”

At that, her temper managed to flare. “You were trying to _murder_ my cousin! I do not _owe_ you obedience.”

“I am not the only spirit _here,_ mortal. I’ve already told you this.”

She paused. “You did not… you did not lure him down to the lake with singing?”

His laugh was harsh. “I can assure you that if I had decided to kill him tonight, my methods would’ve been much more direct.”

That was, somehow, both comforting and more frightening still, to know that there was some _other_ creature she had to fret over. “You said that you keep the other spirits away.”

“From _you.”_

“Oh.”

Loki’s expression softened slightly, and Margaret shivered as his firm grip on her jaw loosened, his fingers trailing slowly down her throat. They paused for a moment on her collarbone, then slid down her shoulder and arm. He watched her face, and Margaret could only look back, transfixed by light eyes that held far, far too many secrets.

“Come,” he said, and then he took her by the hand and led her over to the window. They stood side-by-side, and while she _knew_ that he was only holding her so that he could siphon energy from her, the gesture felt oddly… _comforting._

“Are you… _were_ you truly the god Loki?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes.”

“Will you answer me one question tonight?” Her common sense had clearly retreated to hide behind her curiosity, but she strongly preferred it to the unbridled fear.

Loki’s eyes did not leave the lake. “At what price?”

_I am going to Hell,_ Margaret thought. “For a kiss.”

The corner of his lip turned up in the faintest of smiles. “Ask.”

“Then… how did you end up _here,_ Loki? In this dreadful, lonely valley, of all places?”

He appeared almost startled as he searched her face, before turning back to the window. Loki was silent for a time, and she feared that he would not answer. Really, perhaps it was for the best; she was not entirely certain that it had been wise to ask.

“There was a woman, many centuries ago.” His gaze was fixed on the lake, or perhaps the forest beyond, and Margaret stood beside him, a sudden dread creeping into her heart. “She had hair as bright as moonlight, and she was tall and fierce, a renowned beauty.” Loki glanced down at her then out of the corner of his eye, as if to drive home the contrast, and her cheeks flushed.

“What became of her?”

“I loved her.” His voice was bitter, resigned. “She was gifted with seiðr, and I taught her many things that mortals were not meant to know. Her tribesmen rose to prominence; how could they not, with a god-blessed sorceress on their side?

“She stayed youthful beyond her time - my doing. Her people’s enemies feared her power, feared my influence, and it drove them to band together to destroy her.

“While I was gone from Midgard on some pointless, _foolish_ errand for my father, they struck. Her tribesmen were slaughtered, and my altar was torn down.” His teeth bared as he stared back out over the lake, a terrifying grimace. “They burned her on a pyre,” he snarled, “for her _unnatural_ powers, which she would not renounce.

“Her name was Sigyn, and she died for her loyalty to me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four fic updates in the past week?? (The Prince in the Tower, The Gladiator, Lift, and now this)! MoA's over here feelin' the Loki muse, y'all ;D Let's pray it continues.
> 
> I really like this chapter... and I hope that you do, too! 
> 
> <3
> 
> I've also been having fun with mood boards lately, so if you haven't seen it on [my Tumblr](https://maiden-of-asgard.tumblr.com/post/174892049361/along-the-old-sea-wall-inside-the-banquet-hall) already, here's what I made for this fic:
> 
>  


	6. Rusalka, Rusalka

Margaret was afraid to speak, a cold, heavy sort of weight settling in her chest. He’d finally given away something meaningful of his past, and yet… she was almost left wishing that she had not heard it. She bit her lip, terribly unsure of herself.

After many long moments of tense silence, Loki finally turned to look at her, his eyes strikingly bright in the gleam of the moonlight through her window. His grip on her hand tightened, and he reached up with his free hand to slide his fingers along her jaw.

He felt like flesh and bone. It terrified her.

“Now,” he said, “my kiss?”

_How?_ Margaret wondered, her heart pounding. _How_ could he ask such a thing, so soon after speaking the name of the woman he’d loved?

But no, she realized; it was simply a transaction, a bargain to give him greater power. It meant _nothing_ \- it was only the means to an end. And that end, she began to suspect, was to drain her of life to restore his own.

“Please,” she began, but the spirit shushed her. He still looked angry… and perhaps even a little saddened.

“You cannot run from me, Margaret.”

He released her hand and took her by the waist, pressing her into the stone wall beside the window, crowding over her.

Yes, her ghost felt _very_ real, indeed.

It was even more terrifying when the hand on her neck slipped to take hold of her hair, craning her neck so that she could not avoid looking at him.

Loki tsked. “Where is your honor, girl? Always _so_ eager to back out of the bargains you’ve made. As if I would allow it.” He leaned close, his breath warm on her cheek. “Perhaps I have myself to blame, for being so lenient. So _gentle.”_

The kiss he bestowed on her cheek then was almost tender, but then he yanked her head back further and _truly_ kissed her, and Margaret tried to suppress a whimper of surprise. She needed to hold onto _something,_ so she gripped the lapels of his strange coat, some part of her dimly horrified that she _could_ grip the lapels of his coat, the leather firm between her fingers.

He bit her lip, and when she gasped, he stole the opportunity to deepen the kiss. It was wrong, she knew; this entire bargain of hers was terribly, _terribly_ wrong, and it would be even more wicked of her to actually _enjoy_ it.

She thought that her torment was ended when Loki broke away, but he instead slid his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him, pinioning her between his chest and the wall, her toes barely brushing the ground.

He certainly did not _feel_ like a spirit, now. No, Loki was terribly, _horribly_ solid and strong and _warm,_ just like any other man might’ve been. How truly _dreadful,_ Margaret suddenly mused, that she had no experience with the touch of an actual mortal man by which she might compare.

His teeth closed on her lower lip again as he lowered his mouth to hers, and she whined at the slight sharpness of it, so quickly licked and soothed away. _Oh! Heaven help me,_ she thought as her eyes fluttered closed, _for I am surely in Hell._

She allowed the kiss to continue without struggle for far, _far_ longer than she should, for an idea had taken hold in her mind; she was already dealing with wickedness, wasn’t she? Could it be so truly wrong to use his own ways against him? There were few alternatives.

When Loki finally allowed her to sink to her own feet again, Margaret pressed shaking fingers to her lips, painfully aware of the heady, aching sort of _need_ he’d inspired yet again. _Him_ \- Loki, a _ghost._ A wicked, pagan god.

_Do not think on it now. Be brave. Play his games._

“Now you are indebted to me, spirit, for you have taken more than you were owed.” Margaret tried to sound bold, though she truly felt a bit boneless, squirming under the weight of Loki’s heated gaze.

_“I,_ indebted to _you?_ Ridiculous little creature - I can take whatever I want.”

“But you… you have agreed to play this _game,_ have you not? Are you a cheat?”

A short bark of laughter escaped her ghost at that, and the predatory look in his eyes became a bit more playful. “But of _course_ I am, girl; I was called the God of _Lies.”_

Margaret faltered. “But—”

“What is it you would demand of me?”

She’d not expected him to give in so easily, and her fingers clenched tightly in the fabric of her nightgown as she watched his smirk widen, entirely suspicious. “I would like for you to tell me what sort of creature it is that has tried to take Cousin Ernest.”

His eyes hardened for a moment, and she realized that perhaps mentioning Cousin Ernest had not been the wisest decision on her part, given her ghost’s apparent _possessiveness._ But the look was fleeting, and his familiar smirk took its place. “No.”

Her heart fell.

_“But_ if you truly wish to meddle in things that you should not,” he continued, “I _will_ show you.”

“You will?”

“That is what I said, is it not?” His lips turned down in a thoughtful frown as he glanced out the window, and Margaret was highly distressed to realize that he seemingly had no intention of letting her go. “It will storm during the day, but there will be a window of calm in the night.”

Dread prickled at the back of her neck. “You wish to take me there in the middle of the night?”

“Of course.” His grin was sharp. “You are not afraid of the dark, are you, _little_ girl?”

“No,” Margaret lied, her voice weak. “There is nothing to be found in the dark that is not there during the day.”

Loki laughed. “Oh, child, how _wrong_ you are.”

Shivering, she suddenly realized how weariness and a sort of perpetual sense of foreboding had crept into her very bones - were it not for the spirit’s grip on her arms, she might’ve sunk to the ground. “I will go with you, then,” she said. “Tomorrow night, as you have promised.”

She could not tell if the expression on his face was one of temper or triumph as he ran his thumb across her tender lip. Then he laughed and simply disappeared, and Margaret staggered to her bed and collapsed atop the sheets, her heart beating with so much force she could hear the unsteady rush of it in her ears.

And even though she was _certain_ that he’d left her to wallow in her own self-doubt and fear, she found that sleep eluded her for many hours. When it did finally come, fitful and troubled, it brought with it the pervading sense of dread the lake had begun to inspire, along with her ghost’s mocking laugh, circling relentlessly in her slumbering mind.

_Do not fear the dark, Margaret._

_Do not fear the dark._

 

* * *

 

The morning came too soon - or perhaps it had not come soon enough - for exhausted though she was, Margaret found little respite in her dreams. While Loki had not truly been there (at least, not in any detectable sense), her haunting now seemed to be so complete that he had sunk into every crevice of her mind, ready to torment and drain her.

Examining herself in the mirror had become something of a habit since she’d moved to the castle and attracted a ghost, and so she stood before the shining, unforgiving reflection of her wan self now, poking and prodding at the dark circles under her eyes, at her noticeably-more-visible collarbones. She’d never been vain, and indeed, she was well-aware of the fact that there was nothing particularly _spectacular_ about her form or her face, but this… the girl in the mirror was becoming difficult to recognize.

It wasn’t even a matter of her body itself; it was the look on her face. There was a look of defeat there, of weariness, one that she was much too young to carry.

Margaret’s thoughts suddenly turned to Loki then, to the ancient, world-weary look in his own eyes when he’d spoken of his beloved Sigyn. It was highly unsettling to see such a look on such a young face, but she supposed it was only one of many _highly unsettling_ things about him.

She left her hair loose; the marks he’d left  on her two nights prior were still there, though they’d managed to fade more quickly than she might’ve expected. _I have to put an end to this,_ she told herself, _and soon._ Her tired, slightly-fuzzy mind suddenly latched onto the fact that Lady Judith was busy crusading for her to be chaperoned on her outings from the castle, while the only _true_ threat to her virtue was the spirit that resided within it.

The laugh that burst from her throat at the ridiculousness of it all had a slightly hysterical tinge to it, and Margaret quickly reined herself in when a knock sounded on her door. “Yes?”

Brunhilda peeped in, then curtsied. “You seem quite chipper this morning, my lady.”

“I suppose I am simply grateful to be alive,” Margaret replied, knowing that the maid would have no idea how truly she _meant_ it.

“What do you wish to wear for dinner, my lady?” Sweeping across the room with an elegance Margaret knew she would never possess, the maid opened the doors to her wardrobe, and Margaret flinched at the sight of the green dress that she would now and forever associate with Loki.

“Dinner?”

“Lady Judith is expecting guests. The Dowager Countess Helene and her children, I believe.”

Margaret fidgeted with the skirt of the simple blue gown she already wore, suddenly anxious. “I cannot simply wear this?”

The maid hesitated, her fingers poised over the very gown that had prompted Margaret’s angst. “Well… you certainly _can,_ my lady, but... if I may speak frankly?”

“Of course you may.”

“It is unlikely that your aunt will be _pleased_ with your selection.” Brunhilda’s cheeks turned pink at her own forwardness, and Margaret sighed, sinking down on her bed.

“Lady Judith is _never_ pleased with me. Were it to suddenly happen, I might think Judgment Day upon us.”

That earned her a giggle from Brunhilda, who turned back to dig through the wardrobe with renewed purpose. “Not to worry,” she said. “I will find something perfect for you, and I’m quite sure that you’ll impress.”

“Thank you,” Margaret replied, and then, after a few blissfully quiet seconds spent staring at her ceiling, she pulled herself to her feet and headed downstairs for breakfast.

 

* * *

 

Cousin Ernest was _pretending_ to read again, Margaret had decided. She wasn’t entirely sure why he even bothered; it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. In fact, he’d been noticeably subdued all morning, to such an extent that even Uncle Magnus had taken note of it during breakfast.

He’d assured them all that he was quite well; it was only a fretful dream, he claimed.

Margaret knew better, but she had kept her mouth closed and her eyes on her plate, knowing that Lady Judith was likely waiting to reprimand her if she showed any interest in strange dreams or unnatural occurrences or _superstitions…_ besides, she had promised Ernest that she would keep his secret, and Margaret was true to a fault.

And she could not judge him, for she was barely doodling away at her sketchpad, her mind far away and troubled. She’d sat as far as possible from the window today, not wishing to have the black lake to her back. It was a wasted effort, for the most part - Loki could still creep up on her whenever he wished.

_She could do nothing to stop him._

Swallowing a bitter groan, she turned her attention back to her paper, disturbed to find that, rather than some pretty floral design for the invitation to the dance, she had been drawing his eyes. Hungry, cunning… _wicked._

Heat spilled through her, the crushing weight of her own shame and anger; it was horribly _true_ that she had elected to play games with the creature in her quest to be rid of him, and now she was even more soundly bewitched.

Perhaps he’d already taken her soul.

_Where is he now?_ she wondered. _Where does Loki go, when he is not haunting me? What sorts of amusements occupy a ghost’s time?_

Somehow, not knowing where he might be or what he might be scheming was even worse than knowing that he was right there beside her; at least when he was nearby, she knew that there was a need for apprehension.

Perhaps he was off conspiring with whatever sort of spirit it was that had tried to take Ernest; perhaps he was plotting to do something wicked to her once he’d lured her from the castle and into the dark of the night.

_Really, though,_ Margaret told herself, attempting an air of bravado, _if I can handle my ghost in the castle, then surely I will be able to endure whatever happens tonight._ There was also the thought, a bit more grim, but equally true, that it seemed Loki could do whatever he wished, whether or not she ventured outside of the castle.

_It will be fine. I will unravel this mystery, I will get rid of Loki, and all will be fine._

“Are you quite well, Margaret?”

Startled, she flinched, her pencil creating an errant scratch on the paper. The flaw looked _wrong_ on Loki’s face, and she quickly flipped to a new page, mortified that she’d almost been caught essentially _mooning_ over a pagan spirit.

“Yes, Lady Judith,” she replied. “I suppose the dreary weather just has me a bit tired, is all.”

Her aunt frowned, moving to stand by the window. “Yes, it is rather vexing. I do hope that dear Helene reaches us safely.”

Lightning crackled outside, and Ernest finally gave up his charade and closed his book. “It will be pleasant,” he remarked, “having visitors. A much-needed change of pace to cheer us all up.”

“Indeed. I am certain that you and Margaret will enjoy having some company around your own age, and for my part, I look forward to spending some time with another lady of culture; perhaps she would enjoy helping us plan for the dance.”

Margaret turned back to her sketching, this time drawing a pretty trail of ivy and flowers for the invitations, determined to put all thoughts of her ghost aside until the nighttime.

_I will enjoy this dance,_ she told herself. _And god or no, Loki will not stop me._

 

* * *

 

Dinner turned out to be an awkward affair; the visiting dowager countess brought all three of her children along with her; the youngest was sent to play with Margaret’s young cousins, who she truly did not see very often, for Lady Judith seemed to find their noise unpleasant, while she and Ernest were clearly expected to entertain the elder two.

Ulrich was a fairly handsome young man, with dark curls and a slightly stocky build, while his sister Agnes looked a bit… waifish. She had the same similar dark hair, but her face was pale, her frame thin. Oddly enough, however, it was Agnes who seemed to be the more demanding and brash of the two, while Ulrich seemed content to simply sit back and observe everything with an air of casual disinterest.

Margaret had hoped to let Ernest do all of the talking, and for some time, it seemed to work rather nicely; he and Agnes appeared to hit it off rather well, and they apparently had some acquaintances in common. However, as the evening wore on, it became more and more necessary for her to join in the conversation, and Margaret kept expecting to feel Loki’s jealous grip on her shoulder.

It did not make for a particularly enjoyable evening.

The storm was still rumbling away outside when Margaret retired for the evening, and she quickly changed from the pretty blush-colored gown that Brunhilda had selected into something much more plain - no need to give her spirit any encouragement to make inappropriate advances, after all.

She selected a dark brown dress that was sturdy and well-worn; it was one that she often wore while travelling, and it would be no great loss if it were to get muddy or torn. _Why am I planning to become muddy and torn?_ she chastised herself. _Everything will be fine._

Still, she could not help but imagine herself in the woods near Loki’s ruined altar, tearing through the branches and thorns to escape him, much as she had in some of her worst dreams. Or, he might simply push her into the lake again, despite what he’d told her. It would be ridiculous to trust him - he’d said as much, himself. He was a cheat, through and through.

_God of Lies._

Her wayward spirit made himself known several hours into the night, once both the castle and the storm had quieted. Margaret had been waiting on her bed for what seemed like an eternity, her limbs numb from nervous tension, her eyelids heavy.

_“No pretty dress for me, Margaret?”_

She twisted around, her heartbeat spiking, finding a familiar heavy shadow lingering just inside of the doorway. “I cannot imagine why I’d attempt to please _you,_ spirit.”

_“No? Not even to spare your life?”_

The shadow slid across the room, and she quailed, bracing herself for his inevitable touch. _Be bold, Margaret. He likes his games._ “If you intend to kill me, would a _gown_ truly give you pause?”

Cool fingers brushed down her cheek, but Loki remained in shadow, likely because he knew how much it disturbed her. _“You might be surprised, little mortal.”_ He sounded amused - whether that was a _good_ sign or not, she could not decide. _“Gods accept all manner of… offerings.”_

A light pressure on her lip, and then he was _there,_ warm and solid and smiling like a fox. His thumb slid down to her chin, and her skin crawled as his eyes honed in on her mouth. “And I _was_ known as a _fickle_ god, after all.”

_Of course he was._

“Shall we go?” she managed to croak out, desperately wishing that she could swat him away, knowing just as surely that she’d regret it if she did. “While there is a lull in the storm?”

Loki grinned. “I suppose we might as well, before you swoon from fright.”

“I am not frightened.”

“Liar. And a very _poor_ liar, at that. Come along.” He seized her by the hand and pulled her to her feet, and Margaret realized that she was feeling unpleasantly unsteady at the prospect of following Loki out of the castle and into the darkness.

Shaky steps carried her down the stairs and towards the kitchens, but her ghost did not make for the servants’ entrance that she tended to use for her nocturnal explorations. Instead, he made his way towards the cellar, and she balked at the top of the cellar stairs, peering uncertainly at the inky blackness below.

Her worry clearly delighted her ghost, whose eyes glittered as he ran his thumb across her knuckles in what was surely a cruel parody of reassurance. “I have a _surprise_ for you, little Margaret,” he said, tugging her down the steps.

“A surprise?” She cleared her throat, embarrassed of the way that her voice weakened around him, and of the way that she clutched his hand more tightly as the darkness swallowed them whole.

“Oh, _yes.”_ Loki guided her forward, and Margaret had no choice but to follow along blindly. “I was here _long_ before this castle was ever constructed,” he said. “I know every nook and cranny within it. There is a tunnel that leads from beneath the cellar stairs.”

“Leads… to where?”

“The forest.” Though she could not see his grin, she could _hear_ it. “And as you have proven to be a very _bad_ little girl who enjoys prowling about in the night looking for _monsters,_ I thought it  might suit you.”

_The forest…_

The thick, heavy blanket of darkness surrounding her suddenly felt painfully familiar, and Margaret swallowed thickly, torn between moving closer to Loki and tearing herself from his grasp. “I have been here before,” she whispered. “In a dream.”

“Yes.” He sounded pleased, and perhaps even a little surprised. “Very observant of you, mortal.”

There was a creaking that must’ve signalled the opening of the passage he spoke of, and then they moved forward again. Reaching out with her free hand, Margaret was just _barely_ able to brush her fingertips against the cool ceiling of the tunnel; it was quite large, then, for a hidden underground passageway.

“Are we going to the ruin in the woods?” she dared to ask, her heart hammering at the thought.

Loki gave her hand a particularly forceful yank, and she nearly stumbled. “Not _yet,”_ he snapped, his mood apparently souring at the question.

Margaret could not imagine _why_ \- if it was his intention to sacrifice her at his altar like so many young maidens before her, then why would he be bothered by her making mention of it? Perhaps he thought that if she knew what fate awaited her, she would manage to find some way to evade it.

The thought gave her hope.

She couldn’t be certain of how long they spent in the tunnel, but she breathed a sigh of relief when the ground finally began to slope upwards slightly, assuming it meant that the end was within reach.

“Keep your wits about you,” Loki said, and then she was suddenly pulled from the darkness and into the moonlight.

They did not appear to be deep in the forest, and indeed, Margaret could hear the slight lapping of waves against the shore as the cool night wind stirred the lake. The trees were not terribly dense, and she could make out his form clearly in the dim light. He looked… almost _excited._

Margaret’s feelings of dread grew.

As they followed a narrow, barely-worn path through the underbrush, she realized that they seemed to be following along the edge of the lake, winding further and further away from the castle.

Further from the sanctuary of her own room.

Further from any other _living_ beings.

_I am holding hands with a ghost,_ she suddenly thought, feeling slightly giddy. _A ghost of a god, or whatever Loki truly is, in the supposedly-haunted forest, in the middle of the night. I am following him to see a creature that almost lured Ernest to his death._

Perhaps she wasn’t as clever as she liked to believe.

The trees ahead finally began to thin, and Margaret believed that she could see the glimmer of the lake somewhere in front of them; but _of course_ they were headed to the lake itself, she realized. That must be where the creature dwelt.

Loki pulled her along towards a small clearing, trees sheltering a narrow inlet. Large clusters of rocks were scattered around the shoreline, several of which appeared to have been carved into blocks at some point in the distant past. _Part of the ruins of his temple?_ she wondered.

But she did not have long to idly speculate, for as they neared the shoreline, Margaret realized that there were _heads_ in the water. A tiny whimper escaped her, and she finally gave in and grasped at Loki’s arm.

She thought she saw him smirk.

A dark shape slipped from the water onto one of the stones, and while she wanted nothing more than to dig her toes into the mud, or perhaps to cling to one of the wizened trees and never let go, Loki’s insistent grip led her forward.

“My prince!” There was a tinkling laugh, and as they emerged from the trees, Margaret bit her lip to keep from crying out; splayed out on her back on one of the wider stones was a _mermaid._

The girl had long, wavy golden hair and pretty smooth skin, and most pressingly of all, a _fishtail._ She was also _entirely_ naked, and indeed, she seemed to be rather eager to make a spectacle of herself. Rolling to her side, the mermaid flipped her tail, playfully sending a spray of water their way, and Margaret jumped as one of the other heads moved forward into the moonlight, a second mermaid bursting from the water to perch on the edge of the stone.

The second was just as pretty as the first, and every bit as naked. _“Prince Loki,”_ she crooned, “have you come to play?”

Margaret felt her cheeks begin to turn scarlet. “This is _indecent,”_ she hissed.

“What an odd little creature you are,” Loki remarked. “Your life and your immortal soul in jeopardy, and you would fret over decency.” And then, as he studied her face, his expression shifted slightly, a crafty gleam in his eyes. “Or... perhaps it is _jealousy.”_

“I am not--”

Loki did not allow her to finish her protests. “Undine, Morgen. Where is your _darling_ little sister?”

A third head moved into the light, though the creature attached to it mercifully remained in the water up to her shoulders, her dark, pin-straight hair hiding much of her face. “The Rusalka is sulking on the lake-bed,” she whispered, her voice reedy and lilting. “As is she always.”

“And _why,_ pretty Lí Ban, does your sister sulk?”

The first mermaid giggled and rolled onto her belly, propping herself up with her arms. Loki seemed entirely unfazed by her blatant attempts to show off her breasts, and Margaret could only assume that he’d seen it all many times before. Her blush grew darker still.

“I can answer _that,_ my prince,” she said. “Little Russa was _foiled,_ it seems, in her hunting. How embarrassing! And by a little mortal _girl,_ no less.” Her dark eyes lit upon Margaret then, glinting with a craftiness that seemed unsettlingly out-of-place on such a doll-like face, and Margaret felt her throat go dry.

Loki laughed. “Yes, little mortal girls can be surprisingly _resilient,_ I have found. Summon forth your sister; I would have words with her.”

The second mermaid - _Morgen, was it?_ \- slipped from her perch and under the water with barely a splash. It was _truly_ terrifying, Margaret decided, how silently the creatures were able to move. They could’ve crept up beside the rowboat entirely unnoticed. Perhaps they _had._

It was only a moment later when she reemerged and selected a new rock on which to display herself, clearly discontent at the prospect of her sister receiving all of Loki’s attention. Following behind her, slightly further out in the water, came a wave of fiery-red hair, with wide eyes just barely peeking above the surface of the water.

There was something distinctly _not human_ about those eyes, and Margaret, forgetting to be fretful over the fact that Loki’s arm was warm and solid, dug her fingers into him instead, for those eyes were staring straight at her now, and they did not look happy to see her.

_“Here_ is your culprit, Margaret,” Loki said, dragging her so close to the lake that the water nearly brushed at their toes. He prized himself free from her grasp and wrapped his arms around her instead, locking her in place with an iron grip. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yes.” A whisper was all that she could manage - she simply wanted to _leave._ The feeling she had now was much like the one she’d had when Ernest had been lured down to the lake - foreboding. _I shouldn’t be here,_ she thought.

“You may speak, girl; they will not bite. Not while _I_ am here, at least.”

She wondered if perhaps he was feeding off of her fear - he certainly sounded _amused._  “They are all…” Trailing off, she wondered if perhaps she was supposed to address these creatures directly. “You are sisters?”

They did not _look_ like sisters, particularly this Rusalka that had tried to drown Ernest; she looked far more _feral_ than the others, a slight wildness in what could be seen of her expression.

Undine, the golden haired beauty who seemed to be most fond of speaking, immediately perked up with interest. “Not by blood, but by bond,” she said. “We have shared the Black Lake for many, _many_ years now.”

So, they were _always_ there, lurking beneath the mirror-dark surface of the lake, _waiting…_ and Loki had pushed her into it. Had it been nothing more than a prank, or had he been _offering_ her to these creatures? Her stomach churned.

“And she… has _she_ always been here?”

“Oh, no,” the girl replied brightly. “Russa’s only been with us for, what, three centuries now?”

“Two hundred and eighty-seven years, four months, and five days,” the brunette droned from behind a wet curtain of hair, her gaze downcast.

The Rusalka nodded, only her unusually-large, dark eyes above the water, her red hair pooling around her.

“There was a terrible drought in the north, you see. _And_ a war. Poor Russa’s river began to dry up, and there were dirty mortal men bloodying up what was left of it.” Her pert little nose crinkled in distaste. “So she made it all the way south to us! The Prince’s magic drew her here, of course, and she’s been with us ever since.”

Margaret shuddered as the Rusalka drew up slightly out of the water and slowly _grinned_ at her; amidst her bright, perfectly-white teeth were two sharp little fangs.

Loki’s grip on her arm tightened. “You _will_ leave her be,” he ordered. The Rusalka glared, sinking back down until the water was just above her nose.

Craning her neck, Margaret turned to study his face, surprised by the spirit’s sudden bout of severity. “Tell her to leave _Ernest_ be, as well,” she hissed.

The look he gave her was quelling, and perhaps even a little cruel. “No. They are entitled to their prey, just as I am entitled to _mine.”_

Then he turned abruptly and began dragging her back into the cover of the forest, Margaret struggling in his grasp. “Wait!” she cried, kicking her feet helplessly. _“You.”_ She pointed an accusing finger at the Rusalka, emboldened by her anger. “You _leave my family alone!”_

The Rusalka simply reared up from the water and _smiled_ after her, the narrowed slits of her too-wide eyes the last thing Margaret saw before Loki wrenched her back into the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update that I've been super excited about! <3 I love love love creepy-ass Ghost!Loki, haha
> 
> I promised Hurricanerin some extra kissin' after that last chapter... and that extra kiss might've landed Margaret in a world of trouble. ;)
> 
> I'm a bit of a mythology/folklore/history nut, as most of you have probably noticed by now. Undine, Lí Ban, Morgen, and of course, the Rusalka are all named after various folkloric mermaids/water spirits!
> 
> Obligatory listening for this chapter: [Rusalka, Rusalka](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pZnYpSmAey0) by The Decemberists.


	7. Close Your Eyes

“I  _ hate _ you,” Margaret cried. She’d already come to the conclusion that her mouth was going to see her killed sooner or later, but the ignominy of being dragged away in his arms like a misbehaving child currently had her to incensed to care.

“Alas.  _ However _ shall I endure, when fair Margaret  _ hates _ me.”

She tried to kick him in the shin, but the wretched spirit must’ve anticipated it, for her foot went directly through him, and she shrieked in surprise. He did not follow the laws of nature; it was  _ horrifying, _ and she couldn’t imagine how she’d ever manage to rid herself of him. “Release me!”

Loki scoffed, dragging her deeper into the tunnel. “You are a wretched little  _ hellcat,” _ he snapped. “I cannot  _ believe _ I might’ve thought my use of you too  _ harsh. _ You certainly seem to have enough life left in you now.”

“What bargain do you have with those… those  _ monsters?” _

“I have no  _ bargain _ with them, girl; they are drawn to my power, and so they obey me.” Loki let out a long-suffering sigh as Margaret attempted to pry his arms from around her chest. “By all means, continue struggling. I am certain that you would like for one of the occupants of the castle to discover you this way, wrestling with thin air in the middle of a long-forgotten passageway in the dead of night.”

Margaret fell limp in his arms. Much as she hated to admit it, the creature was  _ correct.  _ No one in the castle could save her, and they would likely condemn her as mad or bewitched if she tried to explain herself…

“I  _ will _ get rid of you.” The words were thin,  _ tired; _ she knew that she would be getting no rest that night, or perhaps any night thereafter. 

“I have no doubt that you are foolish enough to _ try.” _

Even though her fighting had ceased, Loki continued to drag her along the tunnel, and she certainly wasn’t about to make it any  _ easier _ for him.  _ Wretched, wretched spirit. _

“Curse me all you like, little girl,” he said suddenly, pausing as they reached what surely  _ must _ be the cellar door, for it felt as if they’d been travelling in the dark for an eternity. “But know that I am a part of you, now, and so I will be until the day you die.”

She flinched - a reaction to both his words and the creaking of the door, and Loki finally relaxed his grip, allowing her to stand solidly on her own two feet. Margaret’s relief was short-lived, however, as he captured her hand in his almost at once. “Never fear - I will guide you through the darkness, back to your bed,  _ safe and sound.” _

_ How could one sound so teasing and so cruel at the same time?  _ The spirit spoke with such a smooth  _ bite,  _ a taste of some great, all-consuming bitterness. How  _ dare _ he mock her fear, when he was the sole cause of it?

Margaret somehow managed to flounder up the stairs without crashing into either the ghost or the unforgiving stone, blessed relief flooding through her when they reached the castle hallways and encountered light once again, no matter how dim. She hoped to never encounter such total darkness again,  _ particularly _ not with a ghost at her side.

And as they passed by one of the windows that looked out over the lake, the moonlight streaming through the glass illuminated Loki’s faint smile.

 

* * *

 

He had not left her room that night. Oh, he’d  _ pretended _ to, vanishing as soon as they’d crossed the threshold back into the chamber, but Margaret knew better; she could  _ feel _ him there, his heavy presence hovering around her. Was it intentional, or had he failed to realize that she’d grown so aware of him? Secretly, she hoped it was the latter, and so she decided to play along with the charade. Perhaps it would provide her with some sort of advantage that she might exploit.

And so she acted as though she did not know that Loki was lurking in shadow, though her skin crawled with every move she made. Her clothing had become muddied and dirty, and she knew that she must change it; while she was certain that she could find a way to hide the evidence presented by her dress, muddied bedsheets would be much more difficult to explain away. 

Her fingers shook as she stripped and washed her face, and she was quick to pull her nightgown over her head, her body flushed at the thought of his eyes on her  _ yet again. _

And when she finally  _ did _ climb under her coverlet, she’d been forced to pretend that she could not feel the mattress dip beside her.

 

* * *

 

“I cannot  _ imagine _ how you endure this, Margaret, dear.” Agnes took a slow sip of her tea, her little finger delicately raised into the air. Margaret thought her slightly ridiculous.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve no one near to you in age to keep you company, once Ernest leaves. Isn’t that right?”

“I suppose. I am rather adept at keeping myself occupied, however.”

Agnes made an amused little hum. “I’m sure you are.”

Margaret’s eyes narrowed, and she was sorely tempted to ask the girl to explain herself further, but she thought better of it. It would not be  _ ladylike,  _ after all. “I can only hope that Cousin Ernest decides to extend his visit, then.”

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, and Margaret took the opportunity to stare out the window at the lake. The weather had picked up once again, and though her view was blurry, she couldn’t help but picture it as she’d seen it last night under the moon, smooth ripples trailing in the Rusalka’s wake.

She shivered.

Those  _ things _ were out there, lurking in the depths. What was she to do? She could  _ hardly _ go ranting to her aunt and uncle about mermaids in the lake, could she? Lady Judith already thought her too fanciful, and even her trusting Uncle Magnus might balk at the talk of midnight rendezvous with ghosts and naked women in the lake.

Even so, she  _ had _ to find some way to keep them from danger, didn’t she? If she did nothing, Ernest would likely end up in the clutches of that… that terrifying, red-headed  _ creature. _ Could she bargain with Loki, perhaps, offer him something that he could not simply _ take?  _ But there was nothing Margaret could think of that Loki might need from her; and, after all, it could not be long before the spirit decided that there was no appeal left in simple kisses. 

She needed to speak with someone who would really listen, and that left only one person - Father Ben. Margaret wasn’t entirely certain that he’d returned from his trip to seek help in the town, but she decided that she had no choice but to hope that he had. After lunch, perhaps she would be able to sneak away from the castle and pay a visit to the village; if nothing else, it would free her from the dreary aura entrenched in the stone walls around her.

Loki was off somewhere, she was almost sure of it. In some way, perhaps she should be thankful for the proof that there truly were more otherworldly creatures lurking around the castle grounds; other spirits meant that she might assume that her own ghost truly  _ was _ occupied when he seemed to stray from her side.

Though, loathe though she was to admit it to even herself, the thought of him  _ consorting _ with the spirits in the lake rankled her. There was no good reason for her to feel such a thing, and she was quick to dismiss it; like as not, Loki’s enchantments were meant to ensnare her.

The presence of the creatures in the lake brought to mind yet another concern; if they existed, surely that meant that other creatures might be skulking about in the shadows, as well. Loki had spoken of spirits, and Jacques had mentioned elves luring villagers into the woods… could they really be out there?

_ And if they are, _ she asked herself, trying to make out the blurry shade of the dark trees clustered on the lake’s far shore,  _ is Loki’s presence drawing them near to the castle, or keeping them at bay? _

 

* * *

 

Her aunt clearly found the countess and Agnes to be far more scintillating conversational partners than she, and Margaret managed to slip away once they’d settled into a rather juicy bit of gossip about some poor country baron’s daughter who’d been seduced away by a travelling merchant. 

_ I would happily run away with a travelling merchant, _ Margaret thought,  _ if I believed that it might free me of this place. _

But as soon as she thought it, she knew that it was a lie. No matter how dreadful Lady Judith might be, and no matter how frustrating she found Cousin Ernest at times… she did not wish any harm upon them, and she knew that Loki would certainly take out his rage on her family, were she to flee. And truly, she still did not know the full boundaries of Loki’s prison, nor the reach of his powers; there was always the chance that he would catch her and stop her before she managed to escape his lands.

No, the only true solution was to destroy him.  _ Destroy the god, and banish the other spirits from this place. _ Margaret couldn’t suppress a wry laugh at the absurdity of it all.

The rain was miserably cold, making the path muddy and treacherous, but it did make her feel slightly more  _ alive.  _ In fact, she almost welcomed the bitter sting of the wind on her bare cheeks, though she knew that she’d likely regret it once all off the heat had seeped from her bones.

Would she ever feel truly warm again?

Smoke fought valiantly to curl from the chimney of the priest’s cottage, smothered by the rain and the fog in the air. Margaret’s heart was immensely cheered, all the same - smoke could only mean that Father Ben had returned, and even if he could not save her outright, at least he  _ believed _ in her.

Pulling on the hood of her cloak a bit in a nervous attempt to shield her face from any potentially-prying eyes, she rapped on the door, suddenly worried that perhaps her visit might be unwelcomed. 

Father Ben looked startled to see her on his doorstep, but his smile was welcoming. “Come in, come in,” he said. “I had wondered when I might manage to see you, Margaret. I thought I might take myself up to the castle in the morning and see if I might meet with Lord Magnus.”

“Oh?”

“Come to the fire. Must you always visit me in the middle of a storm? I fear you’ll catch cold.”

“Yes,” she replied, “well, I am less likely to be overseen, Father Ben, as no one else is quite mad enough to be out in this weather with me.” Margaret managed a smile as she peeled the sopping cloak from her shoulders, feeling guilty yet again at the puddles she left behind on the priest’s perfectly-polished floors.

“I’ve only just returned,” he said. “I must confess that I was worried the entire time; has the spirit continued to plague you?”

“He has, Father. In fact, I have come to learn that there are… other  _ beings _ that we might need to consider.” Under his curious gaze, Margaret felt her nerve faltering. “Water nymphs,” she hurriedly continued, leaning close.  _ “Mermaids, _ Ben.”

His eyes widened, and Margaret belatedly realized her mistake. “I apologize, Father, I did not mean—”

“No,” he said, brushing her embarrassment aside, “do not fret over something so small, Margaret. These are hardly normal circumstances, are they? And as for these nymphs in the lake… have you seen them with your own eyes?”

“Yes.” She edged closer to the fire, hypnotized by the flicker of the flame as it caught a vein of sap in the wood, popping and crackling cheerily. “He took me there - Loki, that is. Well, it is a longer story than that, I suppose.”

Father Ben settled into his chair, a cup of tea in hand. “Well, do tell,” he said. “I am  _ entirely _ at your disposal.”

 

* * *

 

Though she did not mean to mislead him, Margaret had decided to be a bit  _ selective _ in her recounting of the past few days, particularly in regards to her nighttime bargains with her ghost. She also thought it best to omit the fact that Ernest had nearly been lured into the lake by the Rusalka; the good Father would wish to question him, she was certain, and she had no doubt that it would only cause her more grief.

However, she  _ did _ speak of Jacques and his grandmother’s folk-tales, making certain to warn Father Ben that the spirits in the lake could apparently draw men in with their singing. “And Jacques mentioned elven-kind in the forest, as well, though I haven’t dared to ask  _ Loki.” _

Margaret fell silent then, realizing that she likely made herself sound far more  _ familiar _ with her ghost than any well-bred young lady had a right to be.  _ Far, far too familiar.  _

For a moment, Father Ben made no reply, and her discomfort only grew. “The learned elders I consulted seem to think that you may be the victim of spiritual possession, Margaret.”

“They are  _ wrong,”  _ she protested. “He haunts these grounds, and while he might  _ haunt _ me, he certainly does not  _ possess  _ me.”

“Peace. I am inclined to agree with you, but you must understand that this is a… well, a  _ tricky _ matter, to put it lightly. The fact that this Loki claims to be the pagan god of legend - do we consider him a demon?”

“If you are truly asking me for my opinion, then I cannot rightly tell you. He is certainly something more than some poor lost soul wandering about, but beyond that, I cannot say.”

“Those I sought out who have more of a  _ gift  _ for these things seemed to classify him as such, particularly when I mentioned the toll this is taking on you.  _ Some _ might’ve even suggested the he might be attempting to…  _ entice _ you. An incubus.”

Clearing his throat, he broke her gaze, and Margaret’s cheeks colored. He did not ask her to confirm or deny the claim, but she felt the need to refute it, all the same. “Whatever he stands to gain from me,” she said, “it is only by driving me mad.”

His kiss and embrace… those were simply a part of his  _ games,  _ surely? A means to entertain the Trickster God? To imagine otherwise…

“What can be done?” Margaret asked, her fingers twisting in the blanket Father Ben had spread across her knees. “What did they say we must do - that  _ I  _ must do - to be rid of him?”

“The spirit showed know reaction to words of holy admonishment,” he replied. “And because of this, the majority of the counsel I received was to call in a more learned man of the Church to perform an exorcism.”

“An  _ exorcism—“ _

“Now, Margaret,  _ please  _ try to stay calm. I know that this is upsetting,  _ all _ of it, but we must consider every possibility. For what it might be worth, I would not wish for you to endure such a thing, nor am I convinced that it would even have the desired effect.”

She was torn somewhere between relief that he did not wish to call in some outside authority to poke and prod at her, and dread at the notion that he thought that even if he  _ did, _ it might prove futile. Steeling herself, she asked, “And why is that?”

“I do not think that traditional methods will work on him, for one, nor do I believe that you are possessed; after all, here you sit, as collected and polite as can be, obviously unaffected. No, I agree with you that he simply stalks after you - concerning, to be sure, but I do not find that as troubling as if he were using you as a host.”

“I see.”

“Truthfully, Margaret? I suppose I should not admit this, but I think that we might do well to consider  _ experimentation, _ beyond what the Church might deem proper.”

Margaret’s heart sped - did he truly think her beyond the help of holy men and reverent prayer? Was Loki’s attachment to her truly so powerful? 

“What sort of experiments, Father Ben?”

He pulled something from his shirt-pocket, a flash of metal catching the glow of the fire. Had she not known better, Margaret might’ve said that Father Benedict looked almost  _ ashamed. _ “I should not suggest making use of pagan superstitions,” he said, his fingers tightening around the bit of metal, “but one must fight fire with fire, as they say.”

And as he held out his hand to her, Margaret held her breath in anticipation of some ancient, exotic relic… It was almost a  _ disappointment _ when he revealed nothing more than an old, slightly weathered-looking crucifix.

“Iron,” he said, a wry sort of smile on his lips. “It supposedly keeps all manner of unnatural creatures away, you know, and while your ghost did not seem particularly bothered by the mention of the Holy Cross, perhaps its image will have a greater effect.”

She took it from him, the edges biting into her palm as she clutched it tightly. “I thought that iron was for elves, Ben.”

He laughed. “I suppose it depends which local legends you consult. But as we are in uncharted waters, it cannot hurt to try. Now, given how  _ temperamental  _ this Loki of yours seems to be, I would not risk anything overt on your own; simply try keeping it close to you. At the very least, perhaps it will help you get some rest at night.”

“One can only hope.” 

It was difficult to imagine  _ anything _ having a significant effect on Loki, however, and her grip on the small crucifix tightened as she imagined his ever-arrogant smirk. 

“We will continue to research, of course,” Father Ben continued, “and I would ask that you try to learn as much as you can from the servants in the castle; they are reluctant to admit such superstitions to me, I’m afraid.”

“They are reluctant to speak to me, as well. I have hardly been here two months, after all.”

His blue eyes crinkled rather winningly as he smiled. “I don’t believe you give yourself enough credit, Margaret. I have no doubt that you’ve charmed them all.”

“Maggie,” she said on an impulse, cursing herself almost at once for her continued failure to be  _ proper.  _ “My friends call me Maggie, Father, and… well, I suppose you  _ are  _ my only friend here, so…”

Suddenly and without warning, tears began to well in her eyes, for she was hit very strongly with the realization that she really hadn’t had a friend of any kind since she was very, very small. Blinking furiously, she turned away from him, hoping that perhaps he hadn’t noticed. 

But there was no condemnation in his voice when he spoke, nor was there any of the pity that she so desperately feared. “Of course,” he said.  _ “Maggie _ \- it suits you quite well, I think.”

Margaret smiled faintly at the fire, a tiny bit of warmth finally managing to take root in her heart. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything, Ben.”

 

* * *

 

It was less than two weeks until the dance, and apparently the allure of bringing some high-class and  _ culture  _ to such a quaint country affair was more than Agnes could resist, for she had declared her intent to stay at the castle with them. Her brother, too, had his mother’s full blessing, though he seemed far less eager. Margaret was hardly surprised; Ulrich did not seem to find  _ anything  _ very exciting, from what she had seen. 

Loki had only had minimal contact with her for days, hovering about the edge of her mind and her dreams. He’d seemed pleased enough with himself the night he’d taken her through the tunnel to the lakeside, so she could not imagine why he’d suddenly chosen to be so reticent. 

Margaret began to grow paranoid, expecting him to suddenly strike from the shadows. It was  _ particularly _ concerning whenever she had the sensation that he was nearby. 

She had not dared to make use of Father Ben’s iron cross, but as she sat on the floor of the parlor one dreary afternoon, feigning enthusiasm over the planning of decorations for the hall, she suddenly felt his breath ghost against her cheek. After so many days on-edge, it gave her a terrible start, and she accidentally crumpled one of the little paper flowers in her hand. 

“What is the matter, Margaret?” Agnes asked. “Was that poor flower not up to your standards of perfection?”

She felt her temper stir, but the cold fear of knowing that her ghost had decided to hover over her shoulder tempered it somewhat. “I suppose it wasn’t,” she replied, smiling as sweetly as she was able. “You know how  _ some _ people tend to pick apart imperfections.”

A slightly irritated huff was the only response she received to that, and Agnes turned back to her own handicrafts, leaving Margaret in peace.

Inside her mind, she heard the echoes of Loki’s laughter. 

 

* * *

 

She shoved the crucifix under her pillow that night, as soon as she’d said her prayers.  _ Please,  _ she begged,  _ I only want some peace. I want rest. Just a little rest.  _

When she woke in the morning from a blessedly-dreamless sleep, she was elated; had it really worked, and so  _ easily? _

But then she turned her head and spied the cross propped against one of the books in her bedside table, and her heart plummeted at once. Almost terrified to see what she’d find, she slowly turned her head to examine the pillow beside her own. 

There was a clear indention on it, along with a  _ single _ raven-colored strand of hair. 

A lump caught in her throat. 

Loki had been there, then, watching her in the night,  _ toying  _ with her… 

Margaret fought back the urge to scream. 

Several deep breaths later, she managed to release her white-knuckled grip on her duvet.  _ Calm,  _ she told herself, trying to envision the cheery blue eyes of Father Ben. What would  _ he _ say?

_ He would tell me that what is important is that I am alive,  _ she thought,  _ and he would say that there’s nothing for it but to keep trying.  _

And so she kept trying. 

A few nights later, she surreptitiously scattered salt around then windows and door, and around her bed itself - according to a bashful Brunhilda, her granny had always always claimed that it would keep the Fair Folk away. Margaret was desperate enough to try it. 

It did no good. She rose the following morning to find the salt undisturbed, and the pillow from the side of the bed that was quickly becoming  _ his  _ was carefully balanced atop her mirror. 

It was  _ just  _ enough for her to start wondering if perhaps she was imagining it all. She had no doubt that if she described such a thing to anyone else in the castle, they’d likely just think that she had somehow moved it in her sleep. 

Perhaps she  _ was _ mad. Perhaps that was what Loki wanted her to believe. 

But she reassured herself that Father Ben had seen her ghost’s shade, as well, and even  _ Ernest  _ knew that there was  _ something  _ unnatural about the castle. She told herself that she  _ hadn’t _ gone mad - Loki was simply playing one of his games. 

A little over a week passed this way, and Margaret began to feel increasingly desperate, all the while worrying that her aunt would hear of the odd questions she’d been asking of the servants and berate her. 

She woke just before dawn to find Loki standing at the foot of her bed, fully-formed and only vaguely transparent. Margaret shrieked and scrambled back against the head of her bed, instinctively grasping about her for something to hurl at him. 

Snickering as the pillow she threw passed through his chest, Loki held up the strand of garlic cloves that she’d _thought_ she’d managed to hide rather well behind her curtains. 

“I may not be entirely  _ corporeal,  _ mortal, but I assure you that my sense of smell is still quite strong - far stronger than yours, in fact.”

Margaret gawped at him, somehow feeling both terrified and a bit embarrassed, almost like a child caught doing something naughty. Loki, however, looked thoroughly amused, and that _ alone _ was worrying enough; she shouldn’t even be able to  _ see _ him, should she? She’d thought that he had to draw power from her to manifest, but he was not touching her now…

The fear in her heart whispered that he must be growing stronger. 

He wrinkled his nose, dropping the braided strand of cloves onto the covers as he made his way around her bed. “You know,” he whispered conspiratorially, crouching by her side, “I  _ do _ believe that this is a more traditional remedy against those who drink mortal blood, is it not? Do you imagine that I wish you drain your blood,  _ Margaret?” _

The shine of his teeth as he grinned at her then left her half-convinced that perhaps he  _ did. _ She opened her mouth to protest, but found that she could not find the words, and as she faltered, Loki’s gaze dragged down. “Should I sink my teeth into you?” He leaned forward ever-so-slightly, his eyes fixed on her neck.  _ “Well,  _ Margaret?”

“Some say that they ward against all evil spirits,” she replied quickly, hoping to distract him. “You must admit that you are proving most difficult to thwart, Loki. I can only hope for the best.”

He rocked back on his heels, laughing again. “As wretched as I find your persistent struggling, I will confess that you are far more  _ entertaining _ than any other company I might keep.”

“I would prefer that you  _ did not keep my company.” _

“Liar, liar, little girl. When I am away from you, you fret over my absence. Will you deny it?”

Heat burned in her cheeks, and Margaret shot a worried look at the door, half-expecting someone to burst in at any moment to see why she was raising her voice to thin air. “I  _ fret _ over your eventual return,” she hissed. “I would  _ greatly _ prefer to be rid of you for good.”

“Is that so?” Loki stood, his eyes glittering as he looked down on her; she could not tell if he was mocking her, or if she had managed to truly anger him, and she cowered against her pillow. “Ungrateful wretch,” he said, suddenly turning and strolling over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. “Very well, then, Margaret. I will leave you to your fretting.”

“Wait!” she cried - she had more questions for him, and it had been _so long_ since she’d had the chance to try to uncover what he was truly _doing_ with her - but by the time her feet hit the cold floor, he’d entirely vanished.

Beyond her window, the lake lay flat and lifeless in the early morning sunlight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had some lovely Ghost!Loki music recs made on [my Tumblr](https://maiden-of-asgard.tumblr.com/) lately: ["Once Upon a Dream"](https://maiden-of-asgard.tumblr.com/post/178459802446/hi-there-just-wanted-to-come-by-and-say-that-i) and music by [Timber Timbre!](https://maiden-of-asgard.tumblr.com/post/178266280291/hello-i-love-your-fic-your-ghost-so-much-i)
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! 
> 
> Will Loki ever stop being infuriatingly creepy?? Will Margaret find a way to fend him off?? 
> 
> Stay tuned! 
> 
> <3  
> MoA


	8. As I Was A-Ramble

Margaret sat on a large upturned wooden bucket not far from the castle, sketching the encounter with the mermaids. It was likely unwise to draw such a thing out in the open, where anyone might stumble across her, but she’d been desperate to step out into the light of day, to escape her room.

Over the past few days, she had begun to hear  _ things. _

At first, she had imagined that it was only Loki, sulking about and attempting to frighten her after she’d rejected him, but she soon began to suspect that it was something  _ else. _ He had claimed that there were other spirits, after all, and the creatures in the lake certainly lent credence to the idea that a variety of otherworldly forces lingered around the castle.

Last night had been nearly unbearable; she kept hearing footsteps in the hall just outside of her door, but the one time she ventured from her bed to investigate, there was no one to be found. She’d whispered his name, peering into the darkness, but Loki had made no appearance. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she had retreated under her covers, determined to ignore the footsteps, just as she’d decided to ignore the cold spots that she’d noticed in the dining hall and the occasional sound of scratching she’d begun to hear against her doorway at night.

Ernest was looking paler these days. Margaret wondered if he’d been hearing things, too.

The sketch was rough, but the memory that inspired it was clear enough to fill her with dread. Looking out over the lake at the bottom of the hill, she imagined them lurking there,  _ waiting _ for her. And as for  _ Loki… _

Where  _ was _ he?

“Margaret!”

She nearly knocked over the bucket as she leapt to her feet, tucking the drawing behind her back. “Is something the matter, Ernest?”

“Only that Aunt is ready to go into town, if you would consider that something to fret over.”  His smile wavered slightly as he looked down towards the lake. “I am looking forward to going into town, myself. Some time away from…” 

He seemed to forget that she was there, and Margaret put a hand on his arm. “Ernest?”

“Hmm? Oh, I was saying that I look forward to going into town. It should be diverting, don’t you think? Agnes seems quite excited about it.”

The dark circles under his eyes stood out in sharp contrast to his pale skin; in some ways, Margaret felt as though she was seeing a mirror of herself, of her own exhaustion. “Are you feeling well?” she asked him, her voice lowered. “Has anything…  _ unusual—” _

“Perfectly fine,” he replied a bit brusquely, patting her hand. “A bit of restlessness at night, that’s all. Some odd dreams. I entirely blame the climate.”

“I see. I have been very restless, as well. There are sounds, at times, for which I cannot identify a source, and that—”

“I am sure that it is only an effect of living in such an old castle,” Ernest cut in, leading her back inside, “and one that we will get used to, eventually. Drafts and creaking old floors, and the like.”

Margaret gave up; he wanted to deny the reality of it, and she could not fault him for it, as it was  _ exactly _ what she had done in the beginning. “Of course, Cousin. I am certain that some time away will be good for the both of us.”

 

* * *

 

“Surely not  _ that _ dress, Margaret,” Lady Judith said, slightly aghast.

Margaret twirled in front of the mirror in the dressmaker’s shop, holding the emerald-green gown against her. It was very pretty, and quite a bit more  _ fashionable _ than any dresses she currently owned; it was quite a bit more low-cut at the neckline, as well. “Whyever not?”

“You wouldn’t want to look like a green gown girl, now would you? The implication of  _ indecency—” _

“Actually, I quite like it.”

“Something light would suit your skin better, Margaret,” Agnes told her. “A pale yellow, perhaps? Or a cream?”

“No, I believe this one suits me very well,” she replied, and as her aunt looked on in disapproval, Margaret pulled her own money from her purse and purchased the gown that was  _ certain _ to lure her ghost out of hiding.

 

* * *

 

Margaret wondered, at times, how far Loki was free to roam. She knew that he could leave the castle to travel as far as the lake and the village, but could he go further? Could he wander the entire forest, or the full expanse of the valley? Could he follow her even into town, if he wished?

If she simply ran away, would the haunting cease? Would he stop appearing in her dreams?

She managed to relax a bit as they strolled about town, even finding some common ground with Agnes as they admired some very expensive ribbons. Ulrich had purchased some for the both of them, which left Margaret feeling a bit baffled, as he’d barely spoken two words to her unprompted in the entire time he and his sister had been staying with them. Perhaps he simply enjoyed showing off his wealth.

They stopped for cakes and tea at a small shop that was cheerily-lit and cozy, and for at least a few moments, Margaret was able to imagine that the dreary, haunted castle was nothing but a figment of her imagination. Surely such things couldn’t exist, could they? Ghosts?  _ Mermaids? _

But then she smiled at Cousin Ernest across the table and took note once again of the tired, somewhat-distant expression on his face, and that daydream quickly failed her.

“Have you been practicing your dancing, Margaret?” Agnes asked, a dainty china teacup poised near her lips. “With that gown of yours, you’re certain to have your fair share of partners to choose from.”

“Of course,” she replied. “I’ve promised Ernest a dance, after all, though I fear you’ve gravely overestimated my ability to lure any other unfortunate souls onto the floor.”

Ulrich’s sudden coughing fit sounded suspiciously similar to laughter. “I take it that this is a very  _ fetching _ gown?” 

His sister frowned. “Very  _ eye-catching,  _ certainly.”

“Then I suppose I will have to beg a dance from Lady Margaret, as well.”

And as Agnes pouted over her tea, Margaret dared to smile. Perhaps the party wouldn’t be  _ so _ dreadful, after all. 

 

* * *

 

It had begun to drizzle by the time they packed up in the carriage to head back to the castle, which threw a something of a somber cast over the whole outing. Margaret was squeezed between her aunt and Agnes, and without even a window to look out of, the ride seemed destined to last for an eternity. 

“This  _ dreadful _ weather,” Lady Judith snapped. “I declare, it seems to only worsen every passing year. I cannot imagine how my dear Lord Magnus managed to endure it as a young man; one must constantly slog about through the mud, else remain trapped in the castle.”

Margaret was a bit startled to hear her aunt say such a thing; it was difficult to envision the dreary estate without Lady Judith presiding over it with an iron fist, and harder still to imagine her as she must’ve been when she was first wed, the disappointment she must’ve felt at coming to live in such a place. It was hardly the sort of place that a young lady raised in and about the city might dream of spending her married life.

“Perhaps that is why Uncle Magnus travelled so often in his youth,” Ernest said. “He speaks of his adventures often enough; I suppose he sought out sunnier pastures while he was young and free.”

“I  _ do _ wish that he had purchased a summer home in one of those sunnier pastures.”

Ernest laughed. “What do you think of adventuring, Cousin Margaret? You have travelled quite a bit in your time, as well, haven’t you?”

“Why, yes—”

“It must be a family trait,” Lady Judith interrupted, whipping out her fan to try to stir some of the stagnant, humid air. 

Margaret bristled; it was a slight against her always-absent father, she knew, but she could hardly deny it. There  _ did _ seem to be some sort of perpetual wanderlust in her veins, much as she yearned for a home that she could truly consider her own.

“Well,” Agnes said, “the dance is certain to bring a bright ray of sunshine to the castle, at the very least. Isn’t that so? I would imagine that it will be quite cheery, no matter how the weather decides to vex us.”

“One can only hope.”

 

* * *

 

Margaret was prowling around the lakeside the morning before the dance, on the pretense of searching for flowers that she was quite certain wouldn’t  _ actually _ dare to grow so close to the dark water. In truth, she was searching for some sign of Loki. He’d warned her to stay away from the lake, after all, and he seemed to make himself known anytime she dared to defy him.

She had begun to reach a point where she would welcome hearing his voice again, if only for the opportunity to demand some answers from him.

The night before had been filled with disturbances, and her sleep had been fitful. Either Loki had settled on some new sort of torment, or there was something else in the castle that had taken an interest in her, in his absence. It was  _ incredibly _ vexing.

“Loki?” she called out as she edged along the reedy shoreline, sing-song and hushed. “I did not take you for such a coward, Loki, to hide from me this way.”

Nothing.

There was no response at all, nor a single ripple on the flat, black expanse of the lake’s surface. Margaret picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water, frustrated. Why did he only seem to make an appearance when she did  _ not _ want to deal with him?

Another idea occurred to her.

Margaret tossed another pebble into the water. “Rusalka,” she sang, watching the surface of the lake for any hint of activity. “Rusalka.”

Maybe if something  _ else _ tried to kill her, Loki would deign to make an appearance. He did not want her dead, not yet; despite his games, she knew that he would be furious if he lost the opportunity to feed from her.  _ “Rusalka…” _

“Are you in need of some sort of assistance, my lady?”

She jumped and spun on her heel; she had been so intently focused on the lake that she hadn’t noticed a stranger approaching the castle from the path to the village, and now the man was looking at her like he feared she might be a bit addled.

“I am quite well,” Margaret hurried to reply, blushing faintly. “I was only thinking about some old fairy-tales I’ve been told, stories about this lake.”

“Oh, I see.” He smiled at her, and it was surprisingly friendly; she couldn’t help but return it.

“Are you making a delivery for the party?” she asked, for he certainly did not look as though he belonged in the village. His hair was golden and long, pulled back at the nape of his neck, and his broad shoulders and muscles likely should’ve made him seem rather intimidating, but there was something of a cheerfulness in his countenance that lent her a sense of ease.

“A party?” he said. “No, Lady, I did not know that there was to be a party. I am only a traveller, passing through the region. I was told that the lord of the castle might be willing to accommodate me for a night or two.”

Margaret was a bit startled, for she could not imagine passing through the village and deciding that the weathered, dreary old castle presiding over the lake seemed like an ideal place to look for lodgings. “The castle is my uncle’s,” she said, “and I am sure that he would be happy to have you, Sir…?”

Laughing, he held out a hand. “Torvald,” he said. “Just Torvald.”

She took his hand. It was surprisingly warm, given the chill in the air. “Margaret. I am very pleased to meet you. I’d be happy to accompany you up to the castle, if you wish?”

“By all means, Lady Margaret, lead the way.”

As they turned and headed up the path, a ripple stirred the surface of the lake.

 

* * *

 

Torvald was quite an interesting character, Margaret decided. He was big and loud and bearded, and she might’ve guessed from his stature that he was a blacksmith or a carpenter, but his speech suggested someone of status. He carried only a single pack on his back, and under his arm was tucked a rather rickety-looking umbrella. It didn’t quite  _ fit. _

_ You should not judge others by their appearances, Margaret,  _ she reminded herself. After all, it was hardly any of her business what the young man’s story was; perhaps he was like her, someone of good birth, but with absolutely no prospects.

“Where are you from, Torvald?” she asked him as they picked their way up the muddy path to the castle, hoisting the hem of her dress in a vain attempt to avoid some of the mud.

“I travel quite often,” he said, “but the realm I am from is far from here. It has been years since I have travelled in this area, in fact. And you, Lady?”

“I have spent most of my life moving from place to place. This is my home, for now.”

“And how do you find it?”

He seemed genuinely curious, and Margaret was a bit startled by the sudden intensity in his blue eyes. “I am… well, I am very grateful to my uncle and aunt for taking me in, of course.”

“But as for the place itself? It does not seem the sort of place that a vibrant young woman would flourish, does it?”

“I suppose not.”  _ What an odd question, _ she thought. “They say that it is haunted, you know.”

“Is that so? And what do you believe, Lady Margaret?”

“Please,” she said, “just Margaret. And I must admit that it is a very  _ odd _ place, particularly in the night.”

Torvald looked thoughtful. “This place has a very long history,” he said, opening the umbrella that was comically small relative to his size as the rain began to fall and holding it over her head.

“How do you—”

“I enjoy history. The myths that human minds craft are truly fascinating things, you know.”

There was something odd about the way he said it, but she could not  _ quite _ put her finger on what it was. “True. One must try to approach things with a logical perspective, of course.”

“Of course.” He winked at her. “But, I think that they all have  _ some _ truth to them, don’t you?”

They reached the top of the hill, and Margaret escorted him to the main entrance, certain that Lady Judith would have her head if she attempted to sneak him in through the servants’ entrance. Though, knowing her aunt, the mere fact that she’d brought a strange young man back to the castle to spend the night was likely to earn her a reprimand, or a stern glare, at the very least.

She brought him directly to her uncle’s study, certain that she’d have better luck convincing him to offer Torvald accommodations; he was less likely to demand that the man present his pedigree, as Lady Judith might. Her uncle called for her to enter as soon as she knocked, and Margaret sighed in relief. 

“Uncle Magnus,” she said, “I would like to introduce you to Torvald. I encountered him in passing on the path by the lake, and I thought that it would be quite nice to offer him a place to stay for a night or so.”

“Certainly,” her uncle replied, putting aside the letter that he’d been reading. “Where are you from, young man?”

“I’m afraid that I cannot call any one spot on this earth my home,” Torvald said, leaning on the handle of his umbrella. “Though, I have spent quite a bit of time in the north.”

“You look as though you hunt. Do you?”

Torvald grinned. “I do.”

“Good, good. It will give us something to discuss at dinner. Margaret, dear, can you see that someone finds him a room? I’ve got a bit of business to deal with, or I would track down Jacques myself. Now, my boy, you must pardon us if we stick you somewhere dusty - we’ve got quite a few guests already visiting, you know.”

“Any accommodations at all will be most greatly appreciated, my lord.”

Margaret noticed that the dogs were watching Torvald with a slightly leery expression, though they didn’t bark or jump at him.  _ Odd,  _ she thought. They usually paid very little mind to strangers, considering how terribly spoiled they were.

“Run along,” her uncle said, patting one of the dogs on the head. “Get settled in. Oh, and don’t forget to let your aunt know that we’ll have an additional guest at dinner, Margaret.”

 

* * *

 

She found Jacques easily enough, accompanying Torvald as he was led to his chamber. It was a rather small room, situated near the base of one of the other towers, and it was indeed very much in need of a cleaning. Jacques assured them that he would have one of the maids stop by to set it to rights, and after thanking him profusely, Torvald dropped his pack on the bed. A cloud of dust puffed up from the covers, and Margaret sneezed.

“Norns keep you,” Torvald said at once, slightly amused, and she looked to him in confusion. “A saying I picked up from my homeland, my lady. Shall we go to meet this aunt of yours?”

“Yes, let’s. I must caution you, Lady Judith can be somewhat… sharp.”

“Oh, not to worry. My own brother has the sharpest tongue of anyone I’ve ever encountered, and I have always managed to survive him.”

Was his brother so impressively tall? As they headed for the sitting room, she imagined a whole household of boys of his size, pitying their poor cook; she could not imagine feeding such an army. “Does your brother travel, as you do?”

For the first time, his smile seemed to falter a bit. “He did, once. I’m afraid that he has not been able to roam in a very, very long time.”

Margaret suddenly worried that she’d been too nosy, and she tried to think of something else to discuss. “Do you dance?” she asked. “The dance tomorrow night is going to be quite the event, by local standards. It would be lovely to have you stay; we are always in need of good company.”

“I have been known to take to the dancing-floor, from time to time. Though, you must agree to give me a dance, Lady.”

“Of course,” she replied, amused. As she paused by the door to the sitting room, she noticed that he still had the umbrella tucked under his arm. _ Well,  _ she thought,  _ we all have our oddities. _

“Good Lord,” her aunt remarked as soon as they’d stepped inside the room. “Look at your  _ hem,  _ Margaret. Have you no care for the maids? And who is this?”

“Lady Judith, this is Torvald, and Uncle Magnus has invited him to stay in the castle, as he is travelling through the area.”

“Oh?”

“My lady,” Torvald said, stepping forward and dipping into an impressive bow, “I must thank you for your hospitality. A good host is a truly blessed thing, you know.”

It seemed that her aunt was a bit taken aback, and Margaret could not blame her; he was a very handsome man, and  _ incredibly _ tall. “How nice to meet you,” Lady Judith said after a moment, closing her book. “Margaret, did you see that he was given a room?”

“I did. Jacques found a place for him in one of the rooms in the south wing, and he said that he’d see to it that it will be tidied up before dinner.”

“Good girl.”

“What does your family do, sir?” Agnes asked, setting her needlepoint aside. “I wonder if we have any common acquaintances.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” he replied. “I never stay for very long in any one place here on— Well, as I was telling Margaret here, I have not travelled this part of the country in many years. But, to answer your question, my lady, my family has quite a bit of land. I’ll admit that my father and I have not seen eye-to-eye for some time. I prefer to be out adventuring, when I may.”

_ He is incredibly friendly, for a stranger, _ Margaret thought, _ and very at-ease.  _ For indeed, Torvald seemed almost as if he were simply stopping by to visit old family friends, rather than imposing on a stranger’s hospitality. 

“And your mother, young man?” Lady Judith said, her brow raised. “What does your mother think of this wandering of yours?”

“She worries, as all mothers do, but I do always find my way home again.”

“Hmm.”

Agnes pushed herself from her chair, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Would you like for Margaret and I to give you a tour of the castle? I have been sitting for a long while now, and I could use the exercise.”

“I’d be delighted.”

And then, with Margaret on one arm and Agnes on the other, they went to investigate the library.

It wasn’t until later that evening, as she was getting ready for dinner, that Margaret realized that neither she nor Agnes had really done much  _ guiding _ at all; he’d practically led them directly to the library, in fact, where he’d spent the next hour or so admiring the art on the walls and examining some of the older books.

Perhaps she’d mentioned where it was located, and just forgotten about it in all of the excitement. Her head was hardly clear these days, in the first place.

“Margaret had a haunting here, you know,” Agnes had whispered conspiratorially, leaning on their visitor’s arm. “Even the priest believes it!”

Torvald’s eyes had widened. “Is that so?”

Though she was blushing furiously, Margaret assured him that she had, in fact, experienced  _ something _ inexplicable in the library. He’d watched her very carefully, after that.

She pinched her cheeks, smiling experimentally at her reflection.  _ It is very nice to have guests,  _ she thought.  _ It cheers me, at least, even if it does not solve my ghost problem.  _ How much longer would Loki hide away? The dress she’d bought to lure him out had  _ better _ work properly, or she would feel dreadfully foolish. 

Dinner was very pleasant, and while her uncle and their newest guest dominated most of the conversation, she was distracted enough from her usual morbid thoughts to laugh at their stories and jokes. Torvald was, to his credit, a wonderful storyteller, and certainly a bit of a braggart; though, considering how strong he appeared to be, she almost did truly  _ believe _ that he’d once wrestled a wild boar into submission.

_ Besides, I can hardly judge anyone else’s stories, while my own is so entirely absurd. _

Feeling almost cheerful, Margaret headed up to her bed, so exhausted that she hoped she might manage to sleep through any late-night disturbances. However, when she opened her door, she couldn’t help but cry out in alarm, because the large window that looked out over the lake was shattered, glass strewn about the floor, the wind whipping through her room.

Brunhilda reached her almost at once, and her uncle appeared in her doorway only a few moments later, red-faced from the stairs and breathing heavily, followed by the other men. They must’ve been in the trophy room, she thought, chatting after dinner; it wasn’t far from her room. She was mortified that she’d been so loud that they’d managed to hear her, all the same.

Margaret and Brunhilda were already scrambling about the room to collect all of her scattered drawings and papers, and for a moment, her uncle simply stood aghast. “Margaret, dear,” he cried, “what has happened?”

“The window was broken.” She pointed, tears in her eyes. “When I reached my room, it was…”

“There, there.” He pulled her into an embrace, and though she stiffened at first, it was actually quite nice. “You’ve had a terrible fright.”

“The window was broken from the outside,” Ulrich said quietly, picking up one of the shards of glass from the floor. “But at this height…”

“I’m certain that there was likely just some fault in the glass,” her uncle said, giving her a reassuring pat on the head as he went to look out the window. “This castle is very, very old, you know. We are always making repairs.”

“Really?” Margaret wiped her cheeks, feeling foolish for crying so easily; of  _ course _ there was likely a reasonable explanation for it; she couldn’t keep assuming that everything was the result of some vengeful spirit.

Then she noticed Torvald standing near her mirror, holding one of her drawings clutched in his hand, staring at it as though he’d seen a ghost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's gonna have some dancin'! :D Thank you all so much for your lovely comments, and feel free to reach out to me on Tumblr, too!
> 
> <3, MoA


	9. Then We'll Go Dancing

Margaret froze as soon as she spied one of her drawings in Torvald’s hands, but he made no mention of the oddness of it - whichever one it was that he had found. Instead, he quickly folded it and tucked it into one of his pockets, turning to look at her with an intensity that was a bit unnerving.  _ He likely saw the mermaids,  _ she thought,  _ and now he thinks that I am either mad, or fanciful, or both. _

It was decided that she should not attempt to make do in her room that night, and her uncle sent her down to the sitting room to have a cup of tea by the fire while the servants cleaned up some of the mess; she was to sleep in the room with her little cousins, as none of the other chambers were ready to be occupied. It was either that, or share a bed with Agnes for the night, and Margaret could not imagine a worse fate.

Still, she worried what Loki might do if he appeared to her while she was in the nursery, and so she planned to  _ accidentally _ fall asleep on the sofa in the sitting room, which was actually rather comfortable. At least there, if her ghost decided to appear, he would appear to her alone.

But Torvald came down to the sitting room not long after she’d settled onto the couch with one of her books. “May I join you, Margaret?” he asked, a wry sort of smile on his face.

“Of course,” she replied, “though I hardly imagine my aunt would approve; I am not decent at the moment, you know.”

He sat on a chair not far from her - not so close as to be improper, she noted, but near enough that he might speak in a low voice. “I do not recall you mentioning that you are an artist, my lady.”

“I am not much of one, truly; I do enjoy my sketching, though. It is a pleasant way to pass the time, and certainly much more entertaining that embroidery.”

“I did recover one of your drawings.” Carefully, Torvald extricated the paper from his pocket, unfolding the thing as though he feared it might suddenly combust. “I wished to ask about your muse…”

“It is from some of the village folktales...” she began, fully expecting to see the Rusalka’s dark eyes peering above the water on the page. What she did  _ not _ expect was to find one of her many sketches of Loki, armored and brooding in the forest. Margaret’s voice faltered.

“Is it? The likeness has remarkable detail; you did not base it on someone you have met before, by chance? Someone in the village?”

“I…” What could she say? “No,” she replied, plucking the paper from his grasp, “only from my own imagination, and perhaps a dream or two.”

She laughed lightly, hoping that he would dismiss the drawing as a girlish fancy, but Torvald’s eyes narrowed. “Would you say that you dream of this likeness… often?”

“You’ll excuse me for saying so, Torvald, but this line of questioning strikes me as very odd.”

“Apologies, my lady.” He leaned back in his chair, and easy smile replacing his tension. “I am simply very curious, and I have not spoken to any fair maidens in some time; I must be out of practice.”

Margaret blushed. “It’s quite alright. I am a bit self-conscious of my drawing, you see, and particularly when I am drawing beings from old pagan legends; Lady Judith doesn’t find such things appropriate, and I prefer to avoid her disapproval, whenever possible.”

“Oh, I understand. The disapproval of one’s elders can be a fearsome thing. It’s a terrible shame about your chamber; your cousin mentioned that one of his mirrors had shattered when he arrived here, as well. Do such things happen often?”

“Not to my knowledge, though the servants would likely be able to tell you, if you’re truly curious. I have not lived here long, you know, and I tend to have very poor luck. I even fell in the lake, not long after I arrived.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You fell into that lake?”

“Only from the dock,” she clarified, “and I  _ do _ know how to swim, fortunately, though I won’t pretend that it was a pleasant experience.”

“I am very glad that you were unharmed,” he said, “but it sounds like you’ve been having strange times, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well…”

“And this man in your dreams is very detailed, particularly to be someone you do not believe you’ve ever met, my lady.”

“Margaret,” she corrected. “Just Margaret. Dreams are very powerful things, I suppose.”

He sighed. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

 

* * *

 

Torvald had abandoned his odd line of questioning on the subject of her drawings before long, seemingly disappointed by her continued reticence. Margaret wondered if he, too, was able to feel that something was amiss in the castle. Perhaps some were more sensitive to such things than others; Lady Judith certainly never seemed to be bothered by things going ‘bump’ in the night.

Instead, he’d asked her about her other pastimes, and Margaret had been a bit embarrassed to admit that she didn’t really  _ have _ any. Usually, she was content to explore the countryside surrounding the home of whichever relative she was staying with, and by the time she’d begun to grow bored of that, she’d be sent off to someone else.

It was a shame, then, that the area around her uncle’s castle seemed nearly  _ impossible _ to explore.

The lake was off-limits; though she might venture near to it in an attempt to provoke her ghost, Margaret had no desire to actually go back out on the water, now that she knew what was waiting beneath the black, smooth surface. The forest filled her with dread, as well, though she was terribly curious to know what secrets it held. 

Then there was the village, where she ran the risk of her aunt hearing reports of her gallivanting around unchaperoned. Though she was willing to brave the prospect of Lady Judith’s displeasure in order to occasionally visit Father Ben, the thought of being watched killed much of her desire to explore the rest of the village.

She’d told Torvald of the books she enjoyed reading, and made further mention of her interest in history, as it was an interest he’d professed to share. 

“And what do you know of the history of  _ this _ place, Margaret?” he’d asked, a surprisingly searching look in his eye. “Of the castle, and of the lands surrounding it?”

“Very little, truly. I know that there was once a village where the lake now lies - or so they say. I have heard that there was once a shrine in this valley, too; they say it was to a wicked, pagan god. Though, the villagers and the servants think that it brings ill fortune to speak of such things.” She laughed, then, a rueful smile on her face. “Perhaps that is why I seem to have such exceedingly bad luck.”

Torvald had seemed a bit distracted at that, and he’d asked if he could keep her sketch, to which Margaret had agreed. She certainly had plenty of drawings of the spirit’s likeness in her room; Loki was a very persistent muse.

Strangely enough, her sleep that night had been fairly peaceful.

Brunhilda woke her, shaking her shoulder, and Margaret started from the couch, her hair a tangled mess. “My lady,” she said, “do get up, please, before Lady Judith finds you sleeping on the couch in nothing but your nightgown. You’d best go get dressed.”

Margaret yawned and stretched, surprised to see that she’d slept past sunrise. “Thank you for waking me. Do you know if the glass has been cleaned from my room?”

“It has, my lady, and some of the men are going to board up the window as soon as you’ve changed, until Lord Magnus can send for someone to repair it. They should be done in plenty of time for you to dress for the dance in your own room.”

“Wonderful,” Margaret said, feeling slightly more chipper than usual. Loki’s absence might actually be a blessing, she decided, despite the worry it had caused her, as long as it allowed her to enjoy the dance in peace.

“We’ll likely have some guests arriving before long, so there might be company at breakfast,” Brunhilda continued. “If you would like for me to do something with your hair before you come down…?”

“Is it really that terrible, Brunhilda?”

“It is a bit… unruly, my lady.”

Margaret laughed. “I am very fortunate to have you looking out for me, then. Yes, I would like that very much.”

 

* * *

 

Everyone seemed to be in higher spirits at breakfast that morning, including her aunt. _ If it wasn’t for Loki, _ Margaret thought,  _ perhaps I would be able to enjoy my time here more.  _ But then, even if there was no Loki, there were still the other creatures to contend with, weren’t there? And perhaps there would be even more of them, if he was not around to frighten them away.

_ Or, _ she reasoned, it could be that they were all here  _ because _ of him; hadn’t one of the mermaids claimed that the Rusalka travelled south following the lure of Loki’s power? From what the locals had told her, it certainly seemed as though there was some connection between the destroyed shrine with its terrifying god and the sense of malcontent that now hung low in the valley, smothering the lake and the castle like a fog of ill-will.

Most of the day flew by fairly quickly, lost in a whirlwind of meeting and greeting dozens of new faces and seeing to last-minute preparations. Her invitations, by all accounts, were a tremendous hit; she’d been a bit unprepared for the attention, and soon found herself blushing and waving away any compliments offered to her, though she was secretly very pleased with herself.

_ See, Loki? _ she thought.  _ You cannot stop me from living my life. _

After some time, she ducked away to the library in search of a moment of peace, surprised when she found Torvald already there, frowning at one of the bookshelves. He turned at the creak of the door, a slightly-guilty look flashing across his features.

“My lady,” he said, smiling. “Margaret, I mean. Seeking refuge from your many admirers?”

“Oh, I hardly have  _ admirers,” _ she replied, laughing lightly. “But I will admit that I was in search of some peace and quiet, if only for a moment or two. I’m sure that it will be an exceptionally long night, you know, so it’s likely best to rest while I can.”

“Did you sleep well last night? No worrying dreams, I hope?”

“No dreams at all, from what I recall. And you?”

“Very little is able to disturb my slumber, I’m pleased to say. Though, I will say that I do not find this the easiest place to sleep. It is easy to see why men of old decided to call the place haunted, isn’t it?”

She almost felt as though he was really asking her something else entirely, but she wasn’t certain what it might be. “It is.”

Torvald nodded, as if she’d confirmed something for him, then his teasing expression returned, blindingly sunny. “Well, I hope that you’ve practiced your dancing, Lady. I do expect you to partner with me, you know.”

Margaret desperately tried not to blush. “Yes,” she said, “I look forward to it.”

 

* * *

 

_ This might have been a rash decision,  _ Margaret thought, smoothing her hands down the front of her green gown, suddenly wrought with anxiety. It was a very vibrant emerald, her dress, and the gold embroidery along the hem and bodice bordered on extravagant - relative, at least, to her usual wardrobe. 

Moreover, her decolletage was significantly more  _ on-display _ than she’d originally intended, and while the effect was not  _ scandalous _ by any means, it was enough to make her feel a bit self-conscious. Agnes was sure to make some sort of sharp remark, she knew, and she’d be lucky if her aunt did not do the same. 

_ Well, perhaps the ridiculousness of it all will be enough to draw that wretched devil of mine out of hiding, at least. _

She’d elected to wear her hair down, though that was not particularly  _ in-vogue, _ and Brunhilda had kindly helped her to wrangle her hair into a rather pretty-looking cascade of curls. All in all, Margaret was pleased with her appearance; besides, did it really  _ matter _ if she failed to impress any of the guests, in any case?

She was currently more concerned with capturing the interest of the dead, not the living.

“You look very lovely, my lady,” Brunhilda said, popping in through the open doorway. “Lady Agnes would like for you to meet her in the upstairs lounge, when you are ready. The two of you will make quite the grand entrance to the party, I’m sure.”

“Oh,” Margaret said, slightly distracted. “Yes, thank you.”

Brunhilda hurried away, and Margaret squared her shoulders, staring her reflection in the eye. “Alright, Margaret,” she told herself, “let us catch ourselves a ghost.”

 

* * *

 

The castle’s great hall had never looked brighter, lit with a roaring fire in the hearth and candles flickering merrily in sconces all along the walls. An old wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, newly polished and gleaming. Paper flowers were wrapped around several of the pillars, and for a moment, Margaret was so pleased by the outcome of her work that she almost dared to forget her true goal for the evening.

It seemed that all of the gentry in the region must’ve been desperate for an excuse to gather and socialize, for she and Agnes were introduced to guest after guest in a dizzying whirl of faces and fabric. Margaret worried that she might’ve made a miscalculation; would Loki show himself, with so many people packed into the castle?

Her first dance was claimed by Ernest, who turned out to be an excellent dancing partner, and her second was with Ulrich, who informed her that he  _ entirely _ understood why his sister had made mention of Margaret’s dress, now that he had seen it. Margaret smiled and laughed, clapping and twirling across the floor, unable to remember the last time she’d felt so  _ free. _

Ernest reappeared for the fourth dance, tsking in mock disapproval when she declared that she was in need of a break. “You’ve promised to be my partner, Margaret,” he said. “Else I might be forced to pair off with one of Aunt’s less-than-graceful friends again, and my poor feet will be much the worse for it.”

“Well, I  _ suppose _ I’ll have to oblige you, then,” she said. “But if I stumble and step on your toes, you cannot say that I gave you no warning.”

She was coming to like Ernest quite a bit more than she’d originally expected. True, he was stuffy at times, and a bit fussy; he worried over his appearance and social standing to an extent that she would’ve found exhausting - but then, he  _ did _ have an actual social standing to fret over. Margaret was not really burdened with such things. 

It was partly a sense of camaraderie, she decided, knowing that he had been plagued by some of the same spectres that she had seen, even if he did not fully admit it to himself. The fact that they both had experienced strange things in the castle helped her to feel much more self-assured; at the very least, if she was going mad, then Ernest and Father Ben were, as well. The odds of such a thing seemed slim.

The dance ended, and they retreated from the dance floor to get something to drink. Ernest smiled, carefully brushing his hair back into place. “Forgive me for saying so, Margaret, but I do believe that you look happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

“I could say the same of you, Ernest,” Margaret replied. “I think that a festive occasion was much-needed to lift some of the doom and gloom from the castle, don’t you?”

“Oh, certainly. The guests are a wonderful addition, as well. Lady Agnes especially I find very charming.”

Margaret hurried to agree, though truthfully, she wouldn’t entirely have minded if Agnes hadn’t chosen to remain at the castle for the dance. She could, however, see the appeal that such a young lady would hold for Ernest, and she hadn’t any right to be judgmental of other people’s fancies, considering the fact that she was currently plotting to entice a ghost.

“I fear that I’m about to lose you; it seems that our northern friend has decided to steal you for a dance,” Ernest suddenly remarked, looking somewhere past her shoulder.

Turning, Margaret found that Torvald was headed directly towards them. It was a pity, because her feet were beginning to ache quite badly, and the next dance sounded as though it would be a rousing one. “How are you enjoying the party?” she asked him when he reached her side, aiming to seem the perfect hostess - after all, the poor man had already had to bear witness to more than enough of her oddities.

“It is very charming,” Torvald replied. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, glancing around the room. “No unexpected guests, are there? Anything odd?”

She was momentarily taken aback. “Well, no. Not to my knowledge. Did someone strike you as out-of-place?”

He laughed. “Never you mind, dear lady. I am likely the strangest guest to interrupt the evening’s festivities. Now, I believe you promised me a dance? I should warn you that I can be very enthusiastic, and not necessarily graceful.”

“It sounds like we will be excellently paired, then, for I also have nothing to recommend me but my enthusiasm.”

Torvald pulled her back onto the floor, and his enthusiasm was truly difficult to ignore; there was something very sunny and vibrant about him, it seemed, a liveliness that the castle was sorely lacking. She had no doubt that he would be very in-demand for the rest of the night, given some of the envious looks she was receiving, and Margaret took a moment to bask in the feeling of being the belle of the ball, even if it was only in her own imagination.

Once the music wound down, the musicians took a short break, and many of the young couples took a moment to laugh and flirt; for what else were dances for, if not to meet eligible young bachelors? While Margaret had no particular inclination to practice her flirting with Torvald, she was happy to have to opportunity to chat with him, especially given that he would likely would be heading back out on his travels very soon. 

“They say that I will be able to return to my room this evening, sir, so I’m afraid that you will not be able to have any sort of captivating late-night conversation with me in the sitting room.”

“A dreadful development, but at least we have the rest of the evening, don’t we? After all—”

Margaret glanced over her shoulder, wondering what had caught the gentleman’s attention so suddenly.  _ No,  _ she thought.  _ It is not possible.  _

But it was, for while there  _ might _ have been a chance that there was a guest in attendance who bore some resemblance to the god that haunted her dreams, the burning sharpness in his eyes was unmistakably Loki. He wove fluidly through the crowd, his usual clothing replaced by a very smart-fitting coat and trousers. At first, she thought that it was merely a coincidence that Torvald had seemed to spot him - perhaps he was only an apparition. However, that theory was dashed when a young lady bumped into him near the punch table; Loki steadied her with a hand to her back as he whispered something in her ear, and as the girl giggled, he turned and looked directly at Margaret.

Her blood ran cold. “You will have to excuse me, Torvald,” she said, her smile forced and her mind spinning. How was it possible? She’d thought… well, she’d thought a lot of things, but in none of her wildest imaginings would she have ever imagined that the spirit might show up as a  _ tangible guest _ at the party.

“Margaret,” Torvald began, but she’d already hurried away. Perhaps she could find Father Ben? He would certainly be the most useful, and it would give him a clearer idea of the creature that menaced her; perhaps, instead, she should see if Ernest could recognize him from his dreams. Had Loki shown his true face to her cousin, or only to her?

A slower, more intimate dance was beginning, and as couples paired up, she found it increasingly difficult to hurry her way across the room without drawing attention to herself. Her efforts were ultimately in vain; she’d almost reached Agnes and Ernest when a cold hand on her elbow stopped her, and Margaret froze immediately. 

_ “Darling _ Margaret,” his all-too-familiar voice whispered in her ear, “won’t you dance with me?”

“Do I have a choice?” She faced him, forcing a pleasant expression on her face; it wouldn’t do to start a panic, would it? And if she were to make a wrong move and Loki harmed anyone, she’d only have herself to blame, for hadn’t she  _ wanted _ to lure him out of his hiding?

Loki almost seemed amused. “No,” he replied. “I suppose not.” He took her hand and swept her onto the dance floor with a disturbing sort of grace, his hand resting dangerously low on her back. “Your cunning continues to impress me, girl.”

“You will cause a spectacle,” Margaret hissed, hoping that her glare conveyed the irritation that she was sorely attempting to hide from the rest of her expression. “How… how are you here, Lo—”

“Best be careful,” he interrupted, leaning close, his smile mocking. “You would not want to cause a  _ spectacle, _ would you? My name is very  _ distinct, _ especially in these lands.”

_ Wretched spirit, _ she thought, her heart racing as he pulled her closer - and only partly from fear, she was ashamed to admit. “Very well, then,  _ sir;  _ if you would like to imagine yourself an ordinary gentleman, then I must tell you that you are being far too  _ familiar.” _

He laughed. “Oh, I would never imagine myself as ordinary, Margaret, and I am certainly no gentleman. But you already know that, don’t you?” His eyes raked down her body, and he did not even do her the courtesy of attempting to hide it. “That is why you’ve attempted to entice me with this  _ flagrant _ display.”

“How dare you, you  _ vile _ thing—”

“Hush, Margaret. We have the eyes of the entire room upon us, or haven’t you noticed?”

Glancing around the room as they twirled, she found that he was telling the truth. She supposed that it was only expected; for his many faults, Loki was undeniably handsome, and an attractive stranger showing up at a dance was always certain to cause a stir, particularly among the single young ladies in attendance.  _ If only they knew. _

“What do you want from me?” Loki asked. “Are you truly so enthralled by danger, little girl?”

“I want to know your games,” Margaret replied. “I am certain that you are responsible for my shattered window, and I want to know why you would do such a thing, especially after hiding away and tormenting me from the shadows—”

“You said that you had no desire to see me. Have you forgotten?”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to push him away, but she was afraid that he’d suddenly vanish, leaving her looking like some sort of madwoman in the middle of the floor. “You are holding me too closely,” she said instead, deciding that if he wished to pretend that they were nothing more than an ordinary couple, so would she.  _ “Sir. _ I’ll have to ask you to mind your hands.”

Loki ignored her; in fact, she was almost certain that she felt his grip tighten, convincingly corporeal. “You have been drawing some attention these past few days, haven’t you?”

“Do you refer to ghosts, or to living beings?”

“So  _ sharp _ with me - what a terrible shame. I’d thought to be  _ pleasant _ with you this evening, but perhaps I should reconsider. I  _ will _ be with you tonight, of course; you can count upon that.” At that, she did attempt to subtly pull away from him, but now that he’d managed to make himself tangible, Margaret found him quite immovable. “I refer to both,” he continued. “And you, foolish thing, are  _ very _ lucky that your attempt to lure the Rusalka to you at the lakeside failed. She isn’t fond of you, you know.”

“I’d noticed.” His gaze was too searching, too intense, and Margaret turned her head to the side, determined to avoid it. _ Is this the longest dance in all of creation?  _ she wondered.  _ Or does it only feel that way? _ She noticed, then, that Torvald stood near one of the doorways, his umbrella in his hand, a slightly horrified expression on his face.

Her first thought was that it was very odd that he would carry such a thing about during a dance - perhaps he used it as a cane, on occasion, though she’d never noticed him exhibit any difficulties with walking. Quickly, however, she realized that he must be greatly unsettled to see the likeness of the man from her drawings in the flesh, and a very unladylike curse slipped from her lips; he’d been so fascinated with the subject that it seemed unlikely that he would ask no questions.

Loki’s eyes narrowed as he looked over her shoulder. “I warned you that I would not tolerate outside interference in our affairs, Margaret.”

“I have no idea what you—”

“Come,” he said, and though the music was only beginning to wind down, he pulled her away towards a relatively-secluded corner, still holding her close. “What have you said to him?”

“Torvald? We have only held friendly,  _ normal _ conversation, not that it is any of your business. And I should also point out that you are causing people to stare, as there is absolutely no  _ decent _ reason for you to handle me this way.”

His jaw was tight, barely-repressed temper alight in his eyes as the man in question beelined towards the two of them. “We will speak of this later,” Loki snapped, and then he abruptly released her and stalked away, disappearing into the crowd. She saw the indecision on Torvald’s face as he tried to decide whether to follow Loki or continue on to her side, and she was slightly relieved when he chose her; she’d never forgive herself if the spirit caused Torvald some sort of irreparable harm because of her.

“Lady Margaret,” he said, clasping her hand, his voice slightly strained. “Margaret, I mean - that man that you were partnered with—”

“I did not catch his name,” she quickly replied, dearly hoping that she sounded at least relatively convincing. “Would you care for another dance, Torvald? I believe that I only have one or two more left in me for the evening, truth be told.”

“I… you do not know him?”

“Well, no.” The lies came easily enough, Margaret was disturbed to note, but she assured herself that it was all for the best. “I actually know very few of the guests tonight, truth be told.”

“I see.” Rather than reassured, Torvald looked troubled, and her worry grew. Chasing off after Loki would be terribly dangerous, and as strong as he seemed to be, surely he could offer no competition to an old pagan  _ god. _ “I will have to regretfully turn down your generous offer for a dance, lady,” he said, giving her hand a distracted squeeze as his eyes scanned the room. “I am afraid that I have another engagement to attend to, at the moment.”

She began to protest, but he’d already gone - gone, no doubt, to hunt after her ghost. Her heart plummeted.  _ What have I done? _ she thought. _ Oh, God, what have I done? _

 

* * *

 

Margaret had a difficult time slipping away from the party that evening. She made certain to dance with Ernest one more time, for some attempt at an appearance of normalcy, but her festive mood had long since fled. Her aunt had been watching her like a hawk ever since Loki had held her so closely, and she had no doubt that she would be questioned and chastised for allowing such a scandalous display; the only solution, in her mind, was to avoid Lady Judith entirely, and hope that something even more gossip-worthy caught her attention. 

When she finally did excuse herself from conversation with her uncle and Ernest and slipped away, professing her exhaustion, she rushed directly to her chamber, more than a little surprised that she did not find Loki waiting for her inside. She’d decided that she would be willing to bargain with him again, if it meant ensuring the safety of her friends, Torvald included. But, she could hardly bargain with him if he wasn’t there, and so she crept back into the hallway to search for him, a drab shawl wrapped about her shoulders. Hopefully, none of the other guests would have gone searching for their rooms yet, as it was still fairly early in the evening; she had no desire to answer to any prying questions if she was caught wandering the castle alone.

The rest of the tower seemed quiet and unoccupied, and she passed near to the entrance to the library; she heard unfamiliar voices inside, and strongly doubted that either Loki or Torvald would seek such company, and so she continued on her way. The lake itself seemed like a worrying possibility, given how much danger it held, and for a moment, Margaret was overcome by the fear that Torvald might’ve been lured away by the siren-song of the Rusalka.

There was no possible way that she’d be able to sneak out of the castle with so many people crowded downstairs, and with the kitchen bustling, she doubted that she’d even be able to make it to the servants’ entrance without arousing suspicion. That left only the tunnel beneath the hill, and Margaret squared her shoulders and headed for the cellar, her skin crawling at the thought of voluntarily seeking out that wretched darkness again.

However, when she reached the cellar steps, while there was no light to be found, she did hear the hiss of hushed, angry voices, and she pressed herself against the wall, afraid to move past the stair landing. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, so loud that she feared it might be overheard.

“Did you learn  _ nothing,” _ the first voice rumbled, “from your follies with mortal women before—”

_ Torvald,  _ she realized.  _ Which means… _

“What choice do I have? There is precious little else to sustain me, is there? Oh,  _ you _ can act righteous - I see that you’ve been found worthy to bear Mjölnir again. How surprising, that the Allfather would see fit to forgive  _ your _ transgressions—”

“I only acted to aid  _ you,” _ Torvald interrupted. “If you’ll recall, I warned you about that woman from the beginning, and you have no one to blame for the madness that took you when she died but  _ yourself, _ Brother.”

Margaret let out an audible gasp, clapping her hand over her mouth in an effort to stifle it, but apparently her effort was in vain; the voices below her immediately quieted. She heard Loki laugh, a sharp, bitter sound. “That will be her,” he said.  _ “Darling  _ little Margaret.”

She fled, not bothering to wait to see what he said after that, not waiting to see if Torvald would stop him; how could she possibly trust Torvald to aid her, in any case, if he had mislead her so monstrously, if he was also some sort of…  _ being?  _ The sensation of being pursued was a sharp, primitive sort of thing, and she raced back to her chamber without a second thought, too eager to escape to worry about whether or not anyone heard her.

She really  _ should’ve _ known better, she realized as soon as she stepped into her room, the door swinging shut behind her with an ominous creak. Loki was already waiting for her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know I was picturing Loki sauntering out onto the dance floor looking like Thomas Sharpe...  
> 


End file.
